


The Dread Wolf

by AnyaWVossand



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Romance, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4064236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnyaWVossand/pseuds/AnyaWVossand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor has retired from her post at Skyhold, content to wander the wilds alone. But she has been followed and found by the last person she ever expected to see again.</p><p>NOTE: This was all written before the Trespasser DLC came out. I'd like to see where that goes before I write more, so this piece is officially finished for the time being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dread Wolf

# The Dread Wolf

A Dragon Age: Inquisition Fanfiction by Anya W. Vossand

 

 

* * *

 

  _You were right to be angry. I hope, in time, you will understand._

 

* * *

 

 

Very slowly, I open my garnet eyes. Waking up is getting more and more difficult these days, and not only because I'm getting older. I was in my thirties when I sealed the breach in the sky, and even then the careless, pain-free days of youth had been long gone. Now, some fifteen years later, they are even farther past, an I'm paying for my part in the war against Corypheus.

 

I was the Inquisitor, once. Now, I'm simply Ellena Lavellan, a fair-skinned, white haired elven mage. My old life is one I left behind five years ago – I couldn't do it anymore. I'm no empress, and I detested being judge and jury over so many lives. At first it was possible – I was swept away with the power bestowed on me. Someone had to lead, and my mark, my key to the fade and to Corypheus, singled me out as the only option. I suspect that the others were relieved. There are choices I made that I have to live with forever, and I'm haunted by some of them.

 

Nearly all of them, actually.

 

I stiffly push myself up to sit on my bedroll and grimace at the knots in my back. Tense dreams again. And, as always, I can't remember what they were. I feel tight, like my blood pressure's up, like I'm... angry, or was, like I was in some sort of frustrating argument. When I stretch my jaw, the muscle are like bowstrings. Grinding my teeth again. I'll wear them all down before I figure out what's wrong.

 

Still, as the minutes pass, I begin to relax. I breathe and hug my knees, my slender, pale body still lean, though perhaps not as muscular as it used to be. I'm no longer out adventuring and vanquishing foes these days. Now I simply wander, living in the wilds, as I suppose Morrigan has always done. It's not a bad life. For the most part it's quiet and boring, sprinkled with periods of intense danger and excitement. Given my increasing age (though I suppose my late forties isn't terribly geriatric), I probably shouldn't long for such heroics like I do. One day they'll get the best of me.

 

When I move to stand up, I'm reminded that perhaps they already have.

 

A sharp pain in my left ankle nearly makes me stumble, but I grope for my staff and use it to get to my feet stubbornly. Unlike days past, the staff I keep now is a plain wooden thing, meant to look like a piece of flotsam I found in the woods. Obviously it's not, but the design is understated, and easily hidden when it comes to it. My slender, cream-colored hand grips at the grayed wood, my fingertips somewhat pink with the chill, and I walk myself down to the stream nearby.

 

I'm so far out in the middle of nowhere that I don't bother to dress. And what would I dress in to avoid being noticed? My skin is fair, as I've already stated, but my hair is snow white and hangs in long, wavy locks down past my shoulders to my lower back. I've not bothered to cut it since leaving Skyhold – there's no point. I'm wilder now, feral and angry and sore, and I don't care much for social conventions any longer.

 

The second my aching left foot is slipped into the icy water, I sigh with profound relief. It's been hot and swollen for a week or two now. I can handle pain, and I've just continued to travel despite the discomfort, hoping to let it run its course. This time, though, I'm not sure it will, and that frustrates me. I don't want to ask for help, but my concoctions with elfroot are doing very little. And with autumn soon to turn into winter, it will be dangerous to remain out here alone and lamed.

 

I sit and fume, hugging my one bent knee, resting my cheek on my crossed arms. The sounds of the waking woodland are peaceful, and I try to focus on those. Birds flit and sing. Little chipmunks and squirrels rustle in the leaves and chase each other. I even watch a deer approach the stream several yards upwind of me. By chance, it looks my way, tenses when it sees me regarding it, and pulls away on its impossibly fine, elegant legs, leaping back into the undergrowth. I'm disappointed – I've always liked deer.

 

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I frown, turning my head to look downstream like the deer had. It takes a moment for me to realize what I'm seeing, because the beast's fur blends in with the shadows by a fallen trunk. There's no way it's missed me – I'm downwind, I'm brilliantly pale against the darker undergrowth, and my foot has been in the stream long enough that, had the beast sipped from it, my flavor would be on it. I hold my breath and wait, and slowly the wolf opens its pale eyes to look right at me.

 

I swallow, the sounds of my breathing painfully loud on the chilly, quiet morning air. For quite a long time I regard the wolf and it regards me, just watching me without any sign of agitation. There's a moment when I feel like the beast is gazing upon me in the same way I gazed upon the deer – in admiration. Is my pain making me that delusional, or am I the Inquisitor so thoroughly that I feel all of nature must worship me as well?

 

Very slowly and steadily I move my hand to my side, touching at my staff, which I'd lain down beside me. I'd only have a moment to cast a spell – a shield first, then perhaps fire to daze it. Of course, that would require running, and only now do I realize that I can't possibly do that anymore. To think that I'd chased gods up floating castles in the sky and slain dragons, and now I can do little more than limp from danger as I flee. The very thought makes me grit my teeth, and I grip my staff and take it up, using it to get to my feet.

 

“ _Ar'din nuvenin na'din, Fen Harel'len..._ ” I growl in its direction. Speaking in my native tongue feels blasphemous, after I let _him_ remove my Vallaslin in a moment of weakness. It's ears prick, and it tilts its head curiously, but as I turn and slowly make my way back to my camp it doesn't move. I look back over my shoulder, glaring at it, but it remains where it is, only watching me. I would be so easy to take down – an elf with an injured foot, her body covered in scars. Would I even make a morsel for that thing? Such morbid thinking.

 

I wasn't able to chill my foot for very long, so by the time I get dressed and pull on my boots, it's still aching as I strap the leather around it tightly. Once I'm done I need a moment to breathe and close my eyes, letting the pain subside. How much longer can I go on like this without help? Who would I ask? When I left, it had been without warning, though I imagine many of them suspected I'd leave one day. It was a cowardly thing to do, but to suddenly send a raven, begging for help? How pathetic.

 

“Your pride will be the death of you.”

 

I stiffen and open my eyes, only to see the large wolf sitting some ten feet from me at the edge of my camp. The cold, charred wood of my fire is the only thing between us. How had I not heard it approach? And... had it just spoken? My heart is racing, but I wait. Despite the fact that the barrier to the fade has been strong for the last few years, spirits still flit about here and there. It might not be beyond some of them to use animals as puppets.

 

After a moment, swallowing down a tense throat, I say “I doubt stubbornness will fell me when monsters haven't.”

 

The wolf just huffs, its eyes narrowing with, I think, amusement. It's bizarre to watch its mouth move as it inquires “do you really doubt it? Who will tear down the fabled Inquisitor, if not herself?”

 

Its snottiness makes me angrier than it should, and then I sniff derisively. “I don't know why I bother talking to you. You're just a spirit, trying to make yourself seem important in some mangy body.”

 

“Mangy?” the wolf almost sounds hurt, and it looks down at itself before lifting its head to regard me again. “Aren't we all spirits, in some way?”

 

“This conversation is over.” I simply do not have the patience for this right now, and if this thing hasn't tried to kill me yet, it probably doesn't intend to. “Be on your way, spirit.” While I do my best to ignore it while I slowly and uncomfortably strike camp, the wolf remains sitting where it is. Only when I drop a bowl and it rolls over to its paw, and the beast nudges it back before I pick it up, does the wolf wag its tail, glad to have helped.

 

Without fail, when I haul the pack on over my cloak, take up my staff, and start walking, the wolf starts following me. It must be an odd sight, a lone elven woman, dressed like the Dalish but without the facial markings, marching angrily along with a large wolf in tow. For miles I furiously ignore him, and it feels like my ankle is angry and sore to match my mood.

 

It's only when I'm walking along a ridge towards nightfall that I nearly come to harm. The trail has been uneven, and every step hurts on the left. When I put my boot down on some loose rock, I stumble. I try to catch my balance with my left foot, but my ankle buckles, my staff slips from my hand as I twist. Below me yawns a deep valley, the bottom some hundred feet down a nearly sheer cliff face of rock. The void yawns below me, my staff falling away into the gloom. I begin to fall after it for a split second until I suddenly stop, gripped by the pack, and get hauled back onto the ridge path to safety.

 

I'm dragged back and left go, and I remain on my side, trembling with shock. The wolf looms over me, sniffing at me like a concerned pet. I shiver and look into its reflective eyes, confused and hurting, and it almost sounds contrite as it rumbles “My selfishness almost destroyed you once... don't let it happen again.” I must be delirious with exhaustion and pain, because the wolf's voice sounds familiar. It lilts just a little. It's the voice I've been hearing in my dreams. The dreams I'm never allowed to remember. “Ma vhenan, please...”

 

But its words are cut off when I strike it hard in the muzzle with the flat of my hand. The slap is a sharp crack, enough to make it cant its head just a touch, close its eyes, and freeze. When it opens its eyes timidly at me again I'm breathing hard, my own eyes wet and disbelieving. I don't know how I know, but I do. How could it not be him? After everything I've seen, it's not so improbable. And the way it speaks to me, and looks at me... my heart pounds in my throat and ears, and I strike it in the muzzle again, harder this time. And again, it takes the blow, its ears folding back meekly.

 

Tears trickle down across my temples as I look up at the large wolf, and my expression is caught between heartbreak and rage. I'm trapped, and all I can do is sob angrily, my jaw painfully clenched. Even if I wanted to speak I can't – my throat is too tight. When the creature realizes I'm not going to strike it again, it moves away, gripping my pack in its jaws before dragging me slowly up the trail. I'm too tired to resist, and though it hurts to feel my left foot bang and bump against the ground, I know I don't have the strength to walk anymore.

 

I'm numb emotionally, my eyes glassy. It's like I'm hollow, filled with nighttime and nothingness, and I lose track of time until my cheek and nose are tickled by blades of grass. I blink and grunt, looking around as I'm gently set down on the verdant, cool blades. A beech tree looms over me, providing shade from the moonlight, as if that will give me some sort of privacy. My fingers tingle as I bring them to my face, hissing for a moment at how wet with tears it is. How embarrassing.

 

The wolf gives me some space, settling down to watch me some ten feet away again. Not knowing what else to do, I push myself up to sit and take off my pack. The first thing I look for is my little leather pouch of herbs, but it's empty. I used up my last portion of elfroot days ago. Right. I grit my teeth and unstrap my boots, letting my sore feet and aching ankle cool in the evening air.

 

“So you're... a wolf now?” I ask at last, not quite knowing what else to say.

 

The beast shifts slightly. I think I caught it off guard by talking to it. “I have always been, I just didn't seem it... for a time.” It licks its lips nervously, offering “would it make it easier... to take that other shape?”

 

I glare at him, and he folds his ears back, looking down at his paws. My eyes turn to the view of the valley, beautiful and vast, and I try to calm down. A gentle breeze tugs at my long, white locks, the tips of my ears just showing past, and I'm nearly at a place where I can just see serenity on the horizon, when I hear “you're still so beautiful, Ellena.”

 

It's like a knife in my heart, and my chest tightens, my eyes stinging with tears. “You left me behind...” I croak, my voice feeling like wet, twisted wood. “You... you clearly had something better to go to. _Someone_ better.” My angry, wet eyes turn to him, and I hiss “so why didn't you _stay_ there?” My lips quiver but I toughen up, snarling “am I to be a diversion for you _again_?”

 

“You were never a diversion,” he says softly. “You were unexpected.”

 

“That doesn't make it better.” I turn my eyes back stubbornly to the valley, wiping away my tears with my fingertips. My despair offends me. I thought I'd cried my last for him. I guess I hadn't.

 

When I hear rustling from where he lays, I just close my eyes. A heat rises in my cheeks, and my chin quivers again as I hear him slowly walk over on two legs, not four. He crouches slowly, the leathers of his leggings creaking at the hips and knees, but I refuse to look, shivering. “I can take away your pain for a while,” he offers softly, and I feel his slender, elegant hand slide down my left knee towards my ankle. The thin material of my leggings translates the feel of his palm and its warmth, such familiar things, even remembered from so long ago. My heart hammers in my chest, but I say nothing, still not looking at him, but neither do I pull away.

 

I can feel the crackle of energy and magic, and my ankle tingles, but the pain slowly ebbs. It's the first time in what must be weeks that my ankle hasn't hurt. Has it really been aching all this time? Slowly I sigh with relief, and I vaguely notice the sound of footsteps moving away. There's a rustling where he was before, and when I look at him again, at long last, he's a wolf again, still regarding me with trepidation.

 

Tentatively I get to my feet. The soles are still sore from so many miles put beneath them today, but my ankle doesn't hurt. It is, however, still stiff, and I almost stumble again. Immediately the wolf is standing right next to me, letting me place my hands on his shaggy, dark brown back and lean on him. “I have taken away your pain, but the injury remains. You need to rest,” he insists.

 

“I'm not going back to Skyhold,” I counter stubbornly, frowning down at my pale fingers, and how they disappear into his thick pelt as I grip it. It's an odd sight – the man I knew had no hair at all.

 

He grunts, flicking an ear. “You don't have to. You needn't go back to that.” The way he says it makes my eyes close, as if he understands how much I grew to detest it, to consider it a burden. “I can carry you. I know of a place you can stay.”

 

For a few moments I hesitate, but in the end, what else can I do? When the pain comes back it will be worse than ever, and I'll be defenseless. I tie my boots to my pack, then scoop it up and pull it on. From there I carefully climb onto his back, sitting astride him like I would a horse. He's nearly as big as a pony as it is. It feels odd – his body is nothing like a horse, or a stag, or a dracolisk – but it isn't uncomfortable. He waits for me to get comfortable and find a grip on his shaggy neck ruff, and then he begins to walk.

 

And he walks, and he walks.

 

The wolf is tireless, his silent steps carrying us miles through the night. There are times when I doze, my eyes closing only to open to a completely different vista, miles ahead. At long last we come to a cabin, nestled into the hillside. Vines grow over it and trees loom over it possesively, and given the general faded, worn look, it doesn't seem like anyone's lived here in quite some time.

 

I carefully climb down, keeping a hand on his back as he walks us to the front door. The lock clicks when he looks at it, and I realize that this must be one of his safe houses. I would imagine a person like him needs quite a few of them, scattered across Thedas. To my surprise, the inside is clean and neat. A shelf of books stretches across the wall at eye height, and beneath it is a work table. Across from the front window is a hearth, dark at the moment. A bed is nestled into the corner across from the bookshelf, the linens neatly tucked in over the mattress.

 

He walks me over to the bed, where I carefully take a seat. The pain is starting to come back and I wince, gritting my teeth as I try to keep the weight off my left leg. He looks closely at my ankle, concentrating, and then he pads over to a chest at the foot of the bed. With a nudge of his nose he has it open, and he pokes around until he carefully plucks out a roll of bandages. This he carries to the bed, daintily clutching the roll with his teeth, and deposits it between my knees. There he focuses on it, his light eyes glowing with a blueish light for a moment. When his eyes return to normal, the bandaging steams in the air, and when I touch the white rolled up strip of cloth, it's cold to the touch.

 

“Wrap your ankle with that. I will go out and collect the ingredients for your medicine.” I don't have time to comment on it before he turns around, nudges the door open with his head, and slips outside. Gone again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

While he's gone, I look around the cabin. At first, when I wrap the chilled bandage around my ankle, the pain and stiffness both recede just a little. It's a relief all over again, given that his spell has been wearing off, and I slip out of the bed to look around. I've been on my own for many years, so to see something so normal and familiar is heartening. Given his previously admitted penchant for wandering, maybe he feels the same way.

 

Maybe out of some sense of spitefulness, I take a few books from his bookshelf back with me to the bed. A gentle wave of my hand sparks a light in the wood stacked in the hearth, and the interior finally has enough light to read by, despite the drapes covering the window. The tomes I've chosen aren't the easiest of reading – biological forays and essays on demons, accounts of mages and their dreams, things of that nature.

 

Really, I'd expect no other kind of book to be in here.

 

I feel like I only just lay back down to start reading when I startle awake again. The door creaks as it opens, and he walks in, the large wolf still, with jaws full of elfroot and various other things. He pads over to a small work table beneath the shelf, then looks up to see some of them askew, tilting into the gaps. His ears fold back, and he looks over at me and the small pile I'd strewn about the bed. The messiness makes him grumble just a little, his eyes narrowing in the fussy way they used to.

 

When he's done scolding me with a look, he deposits his findings on the table. Some of the stems have teeth marks, but I suppose that couldn't be helped. To my surprise, he says “if I knew I'd be entertaining you here, I would have procured some of Varric's more lurid tales.”

 

That almost makes me smile a little. “If you knew you'd be entertaining me here, now, I'd be somewhat concerned.” I hold up a cautionary finger. “Augury and time magic are nothing to fool around with.”

 

“In this modern age, I suppose that's true” he quips, his tail wagging just a touch, amused by his own demure arrogance.

 

Perhaps it's inevitable, but still I remain frozen in place when I witness him change back into the man I knew. The wolf's form dissolves, and in its place stands a man dressed in leathers and woolen cloth. His sharp, pointed ears stand out distinctly against his bald head, and his tall, elegant frame remains with its back to me. For just a second I know he's tempted to turn and look, and his head does turn just a touch before it stops, and moves back to where it was.

 

For perhaps twenty minutes he stands at his table and works on the plants he'd collected, his shoulders moving just a touch, the shoulder blades sliding smoothly beneath skin and cloth. His head dips just a little, focusing on his efforts. For that entire time I sit there and watch him past the curtain of my long, tangled white hair. Has he aged? Has time been kind to him? From what I can see, it's been kind to his body – there's no obvious frailty, no deformity.

 

My heart beats anxiously in my chest. I don't want him to turn around, but then again I do. And I hate it that I do. I detest that he left such a scar on my heart, that of all the monsters I've ever faced, his gentle unwillingness is what hurt me the most. Eventually I lower my eyes, listening instead to the easy, practiced click of his paring knife on the cutting board, then of the pestle grinding the pieces in the bowl as he mashes them. A few glass vials are lined up, clinking lightly, and he scrapes the mashings into a small pot to let them simmer and reduce.

 

All of this is so mundane, so normal. But it's not. This is the kind of thing that I dream about sometimes, and wake up in mourning because of. These are the worst dreams, because I want to stay in them, never to wake. I'm so absorbed in this thought that when he takes a gentle seat on the bed by my feet, it takes me by surprise. My eyes remain downcast, my hair still hiding my face from him somewhat. It's childish, not looking, but I feel like if I do... if I see his face even once more... he'll disappear like smoke.

 

The tension and the silence make me grind my teeth, though when his fingers push up my legging and examine the magically chilled bandage on my ankle, the skin to skin contact makes me blush, even to the tips of my ears.

 

“The swelling has reduced. That's very good,” he mutters crisply to himself. I don't move as he unwraps the bandage and examines my ankle closely, gently moving the joint beneath his fingertips. “There is... scraping. It's rough... The cartilage here is wearing away.” His tone is sad. Apologetic. “Do you have pains in your hands?”

 

“Just the one.” Out of habit I flex the fingers on the hand that bears the anchor. “Some days are worse than others.”

 

“May I?”

 

I swallow, but nod, lifting my left hand and offering it to him. He takes it in his own, his fingers tracing over the subtle lines in the skin that, when rifts are close, peel open like the lips of many wounds and blaze with green light. One by one he tests my fingers, moving them, seeing if they flex smoothly or not. “There is some wear – closing so many rifts, the physical resistance was born by your bones and tendons and cartilage, time after time. That is not surprising. Your other hand, please.” Even now I'm still not looking at him, but I offer my right hand in place of the left, and again his touch moves along my fingers, each one. “There is no pain in this hand, you said?” he inquires, and to that I shake my head. “I sense no disease that would swell your joints. If it is a comfort, your aches are only from overuse. If you take care of yourself, it will not get worse.”

 

That makes me frown. “But will it get better?” His silence is irritating, and at long last I lift my eyes to meet his, quickly spitting out “I will not retire into my dotage like some ruined crone” before the weight of his gaze makes me shiver and fall silent.

 

My eyes take in all of him – his features, his expression, the color of his eyes – and he hasn't changed at all. His brow is lowered just a touch, his eyes gazing out from beneath them, half shadowed, and his lips are set in such a way that it's a secret laugh, a private amusement at a joke he's not about to share with anyone else. A soft chuckle slips from his throat, and I only just realize that he's still holding my hand. “I know.”

 

My throat is tense as I swallow, and my continuous blush makes me feel self conscious. “For that smirk I should strike your face again. And I would, if it weren't now so fine.” That takes him by surprise – why did I say that?

 

“Did it make you feel better, to strike me?” he inquires.

 

Again my eyes fall closed, and I lower my head. Very slowly I shake it. “I was so angry, but... I just... couldn't believe you were real. And I could think of no other way to touch you.”

 

His head tilts just a touch, and I only realize now how canine a gesture that's always been. “And here I am, thinking that I deserved a far worse punishment.”

 

I sniff, peeking out at him from my hair. “Those who raise Mabari hounds, sometimes they castrate an animal if it proves intractable.”

 

He blinks, then clears his throat gingerly. “Yes, well, that would indeed be far worse.”

 

Seeing his unease confuses me. “What would you need with them? All that we were seemed only like a game to you, like it didn't matter to your hea...”

 

But I'm not allowed to finish. Strong, elegant hands let go of my fingers to instead cradle the back of my head. His lips press hotly against mine, and it's like no time has passed at all. Jolts of desire thrill along my nerves, my heart races, and my skin warms. We had never been intimate – our courtship had never progressed beyond kisses, passionate though they may have been. Even so, every kiss had felt just on the verge of becoming more, as if it had every right to, should have done, but never had.

 

Suddenly I shudder, and my hands press to his chest to push him back. He's reluctant and confused, a slight blush tinting his angular cheeks. The elf lifts his eyes to meet mine, and I swallow, straightening my spine. “You're not allowed to play with me anymore, Solas. Not if you intend to leave me again.”

 

The air between us thrums with tension. The ever-stoic elf... I know he is impulsive, despite him trying to hide it. I've always known. And he's fighting it now. “There are things I cannot tell you...” he whispers, looking at me desperately, wanting to tell me. “Things that would make you despise me.”

 

“I have despised you for a long time, already. I would consider it a courtesy to have a better reason than heartbreak.”

 

He sighs, looking down at his hands. “You witnessed the reality of Mythal, did you not?” I nod, and he continues. “The old gods, the ones the Dalish revere, have grown in the telling. Long, long ago they were something else. _We_ were.”

 

A wolf. _The_ wolf. “Fen'Harel...” I breathe, feeling the blood drain from my face. He grows dismayed as I panic and push myself back along the bed, until my shoulders and the back of my skull push against the wooden wall. Solas moves after me and I shake with fear, trying to push him away. “No! You're the Dread Wolf! Solas!”

 

He looks pained, but even as he looms over me, he takes a hold of my wrists and presses them to the bed by my hips, looking me in the eyes. I'm panting hard, my anxiety unbearable. All elven children, Dalish or otherwise, are warned that if they don't obey, the Dread Wolf shall come for them. He is dark and mysterious, evil, a liar, the one who locked the good gods away. “Ellena, please listen!” he begs. But I can't calm down. I'm beside myself.

 

And so Solas kisses me again, so firmly that the back of my head can't move away from the wall. Slowly, heartbeat by heartbeat, my panic subsides, until his lips part from mine by only a hair. “I would never hurt you like that. I have sworn to protect you, because you are owed the protection of Fen'Harel. For what you did, when no other could, or would, we owe you. Even the gods owe you.”

 

“I don't need your protection,” I breathe against his lips, feeling lightheaded.

 

The tension in his body eases, and he smiles softly. “Not from the world, no. But your stubbornness? That is another matter.”

 

“I'm not stubborn,” I insist childishly, but even I know it's a foolish thing to say. Of course I am. The Inquisition wouldn't have survived the calamity at Haven if I hadn't stubbornly decided to live. I take in a deep breath and close my eyes, forcing the tension to slowly flow out of my frame.

 

“You know, it was so difficult to maintain this facade while with the Inquisition's forces. To be quiet and reserved, to stay in one place.” Solas's head dips, and I gasp as he presses his lips to the side of my neck. “But what was most difficult of all was being unable to truly _give in_ to how I felt.” His teeth gently graze along my skin, and my eyes roll closed.

 

When I swallow, it shifts the skin beneath his lips, making me shiver. Heartbeats pass as he keeps kissing along my throat and ear, until I, at last, softly ask “how would you have given in?”

 

It's an invitation, and he knows it. He shifts, his knees nudging in between my legs, parting them as he slides in closer. My wrists are freed so he can press one hand to the wall by my head. I feel like I'm being closed in, and it's both frightening and thrilling. The look of that huge predator, the huge wolf, is still in his eyes. He still is that beast at heart. My lips tremble just a little before he presses his own to them again, and this time the kiss is different. There is no leash on it, but it's not inartful either. The passion he'd had to temper is there in full bloom, and as my body arches up against his, Solas' free arm wraps around my lower back, keeping me there against him.

 

He had been careful in the past. We had kissed, but only that. Now? Now I can feel his entire body fall in line with his ardor, and the hot stiffness within his leggings presses between our hips, as obvious as the sun in the morning sky. We'd never done anything like this before, and beyond all rational thought, all I want is to tug down both our leggings and just finally let it happen, before he can reconsider.

 

Unfortunately, practical matters have a way of interrupting at the worst times.

 

The simmering pot by the work bench begins to bubble and boil over, the splatters of green gel hissing as they drip into the flame. Solas hisses in frustration, then turns to look, and by the gods I feel the impulse to surge forward and suckle on his beautiful neck, just below his ear. And I almost do, until I accidentally push on my left foot to prop myself up. I feel a sharp stab of pain that makes me flinch. I'd forgotten all about my injury.

 

With a sigh, Solas murmurs “I must attend to this,” before getting up from the bed and walking over to the table. His stride is tense, as if walking away is the last thing he wants to do. And I'm left on the bed, half propped up against the wall, legs spread, wondering how I'd willingly moved this way only mere minutes after still being so angry with him. Have I fallen under a spell? I don't feel any residual magic clinging to me, but perhaps I wouldn't, if the caster were clever.

 

And there's no one more clever than the Dread Wolf, or so the legends say.

 

While he's over there, tending to the task of potion making, I straighten my clothing, which has mysteriously become somewhat disheveled in the last few minutes. I'm not sure why I feel self-conscious. Obviously he's seen me naked – that was him by the stream, watching me just the other day. It feels like ages ago, now. Still, my shyness forces me to make myself more presentable, so while he works, I ease myself to sit at the edge of the bed, my legs bent over the edge at the knee, and finger comb my hair.

 

Tangle are inevitable with locks this long, so I ease them out before braiding my white tresses into one long plait. With my hair neatened, I look down at the rest of my clothing – it's dusty from being dragged along the road, and weather worn at that. As the Inquisitor I wore such finery – Vivienne wouldn't have allowed for anything less. Back then I'd felt so uncomfortable in those silks, leathers, and wools – I'm Dalish, a traveler. I was raised to dress practically and modestly.

 

But now? Now I miss the finery, because I remember how Solas used to look at me, especially during the Empress's ball. We'd danced on the balcony, that little respite in the middle of violent and plotting madness. He'd professed his love of the court, of intrigue and beauty and licentious scandals. And look at me now – travel worn, older, dressed in clothing that's not technically rags only because they aren't shredded enough yet.

 

And why do I care, suddenly? But... is it sudden? Or had I acquiesced to Vivienne's fussiness because, deep down, I wanted Solas to keep looking at me like that? How many decisions did I make to garner his attention and keep it? How long, really, have I been courting him? Have I ever stopped? In the end, I left the Inquisition without a word, just like he did, to wander alone.

 

My eyes widen, and I turn towards him. How long has he been courting me? Why was he even there, after the cataclysm? Or, rather, why did he stay? If he is who he says he is, then I can only imagine that he was responsible in some way. Fen'Harel and chaos go hand in hand. Is that why he believes I'll hate him if I learn the truth? “You... gave Corypheus the orb,” I say at last, in sudden realization.

 

Solas wilts just a little, and the sounds of his work immediately cease. After a few seconds of wretched silence, he mutters “yes.”

 

All I can do is nod, looking down at my knees, breathing out. He turns towards me, his expression tense, upset, and confused. “Don't you want to know why?”

 

I look over at him, breathing in slowly. “No, Solas. You would not have helped to put it right if you meant to do evil. Right?” He swallows and nods, and I breathe out, relieved.

 

He's not, however. For a moment he turns back to the table, finishing up with his preparations, and then he carries over a small glass vial of light green liquid, handing it to me. “But you suffered. You, of all people... of all the people in the world...”

 

I accept the vial and unstopper it, smelling the familiar aroma of the healing concoction. When I drink it, I can tell that the batch he's made is a little more powerful, and I immediately start to feel better. The throb in my ankle dies down, and I set the vial on the side table beside the bed, where I'd stacked most of the books I'd taken down to read. “I did suffer. My clan is gone... but that part isn't your fault. Nor are the evils of others – the weakness of the Wardens, the avarice of Tevinter, or the conflict between the mages and templars; none of them are your fault.”

 

Solas stands in front of me, looming over me almost aggressively, as he demands “but you should be furious with me!”

 

My eyes turn towards a corner of the cabin where a few staves stand at the ready, to be fashioned into the more magical variety. I hold out my hand and summon one, then use it to help myself stand up, my chest almost touching his as I look up into his face. “I was. I slapped you, remember?”

 

Solas grits his teeth and looks down, flushing a touch, clearly dissatisfied.

 

That won't do. I frown and crack the butt of the staff onto the floor, gathering his surprised attention in an instant. “And I hated you, because you broke my heart. Because you kept secrets from me. Because you... forced me to be the Inquisitor. At first I did it to do what was right, but I kept doing it because I loved you. Because you guided me to Skyhold, to that throne, to sit in judgment. And then you left me there, when you got your orb back. I felt used, like I was a tool. So...” I narrow my eyes. “Was I a tool?”

 

He looks terribly uncomfortable, but he doesn't move away. He's battling with himself, I can see it, and in the end he breathes “yes... you were.”

 

I nod, a little disappointed, but I'd suspected as much. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

 

Distraught, he clasps my shoulders, his expression desperate as he urges “but that wasn't all you were! Not to me! I used you, shamefully, but I loved you, too. I _still_ love you.”

 

“Why didn't you stay with me, Solas?” I beg in a whisper.

 

His hands cup my cheeks, his thumbs just caressing along the top edges of my ears. “I had to make amends for my mistakes. You were not the only one I'd lied to. But... I didn't have to disappear to do that. I was ashamed, Ellena. I have never truly felt shame before – in ages past I've done what I felt was right. But this time... this time I know that what I did was wrong. I wronged the world, and worse, I wronged you. I didn't know how to make it better, so I felt that preventing myself from doing more damage was best... but that is no justification.”

 

We stand in silence for a little while, and the sounds of the late afternoon trickle in through the windows. To my surprise I smile just a little, my fingers squeezing the staff before relaxing. “I thought Fen-Harel was always fearsome and full of tricks.”

 

“Fen'Harel has never been in love before...” Solas murmurs guiltily, looking into my eyes sincerely. My eyes sting a little, and I swallow, looking down, listening as he continues “you have changed me, Ellena. Perhaps not for the better, but I am changed forever. I realize now that there's no undoing it, even if I wished to, and I must take responsibility.”

 

Please don't let this be a lie. Please don't let this be a trick.

 

Gently, he guides me to look back up at him. “I am old, Ellena. Very old. But if you will have this old wolf, I will stay with you and serve you faithfully for the rest of your days.”

 

My throat is tight, and I have to swallow before asking “and you won't run away again?”

 

Solas smiles. “No, I won't run away. There are some places I must go where you cannot physically follow, but I will never linger there, and I will always come back to you.”

 

The Fade. He'd always talked about it, but I'd always thought he'd gone there in dreams. The one time I'd been there physically was enough; I'd rather not follow him there again. “I understand.”

 

On impulse, I press up onto the balls of my bare feet and cup my hand on the back of his head, pulling him in for a kiss. At first he tenses with surprise, but that moment is brief. The backs of my legs were already against the bed as we spoke, so when he moves forward to press his knee onto the mattress, I slowly shift back to sit, and then lie down on my back as he continues to press forward. The staff in my hand slips from my hand and clatters to the floor, but we ignore it. My ankle feels so much better that I hardly care about it as we shift back farther onto the bed.

 

My fingers slide down his chest to the belts he wears at his waist, and I waste no time in unfastening them. He's doing the same with the lacings of my tunic, revealing more of my fair skin beneath my collarbone. The kiss parts and I gasp for air, moaning softly and tilting my head as he kisses and suckles on my neck again. His left hand slides down my chest and stomach, then slips in beneath the fabric until his fingertips slide up along my warm skin. My face flushes hotly all over again – it's not like I'm inexperienced. There were men (and women) before Solas, but there haven't been any since.

 

Contrite though he may be for his past misdeads, it seems that he hasn't totally abandoned the tricky, teasing side of his nature. That hidden touch caresses, his nails just scratching here, fingers pinching there, always a surprise wherever the sensation goes, and I shiver and gasp every time. At times his hand slides back down towards my hips, but always lingers, then heads back upwards at the waist of my leggings. It's frustrating and intentional, and eventually I whine and shove him off of me to roll on his back to my right.

 

His smile is cocky and light-hearted, and he welcomes me as I move to straddle his hips, my hands braced on his chest, gripping at the striped, beige fabric of his tunic. I give it a tug and growl “this is coming off,” before leaning back and folding my arms over my chest imperiously.

 

The way his smile coils wryly makes my heart flutter but I keep my expression stern, and he intones “as you wish.” I have to lift up a little to free the front drape of the garment, but soon he's pulled it up and off, over his head. Only now do I notice that the necklace he used to wear, the wolf's jawbone on leather thongs, has been set aside. Or was that only a charm to help him maintain his elven shape? I suppose it's not terribly important anymore.

 

What is important, however, is the gorgeous body that I've never seen bared before now. Naked from the waist up, Solas lies on the bed between my parted legs, folding his arms behind his hairless head as he smiles up at me coyly. He knows how good he looks of course – why would Fen'Harel choose an ugly body? Even so, it's a work of art – elven men are, by nature, svelte, but he takes it to another place altogether. His skin is unmarked and fair, and only the lightest sign of hair is at his eyebrows and beneath the crease of arm and shoulder.

 

My fingers slowly slide over his smooth chest, and his smile grows. “Does this body please you?” he purrs, half-lidding his stormy eyes.

 

My own garnet gaze narrows as well, and I smile, teasing “it's adequate.”

 

One of his dark brows flicks up, and he asks, incredulously, “only adequate?” Suddenly, he smirks, offering “perhaps you would prefer the wolf instead?”

 

His insolence makes me sigh, and I slap him lightly on the cheek. It sounds louder and harder than it truly is, but even so he smiles, sucking in air through his teeth at the sting of it. I can feel the hard bulge beneath me stir and grow, and my smile grows. Slowly, teasingly, I pull off my own tunic, tossing it aside. His arms move from behind his head, his hands sliding up from my hips to caress me just like I'd caressed him. His long, elegant fingers slide over the curves of my modest breasts, my nipples hardening against his palms. Beneath me, his hips move, lifting to press against mine.

 

The feeling makes me moan softly and dip my head, and my stomach twitches and tenses as his hands slide back down it. One comes to rest on my right hip, but the other keeps going, his fingers just sliding into the waist of my leggings. I hold my breath, feeling his touch slide in between my legs slowly, and I furrow my brow as a single digit caresses over my slit, slippery with desire. “How would you have me?” he asks on a warm breath, the hand on my hip guiding me to gently, slowly grinding against his touch, and I allow it, biting my lip and closing my eyes.

 

Slowly, the hand on my hip slides down, pushing down the waist of my leggings until they're bunched around the middle of my thighs. My hands brace on his shoulders and I whimper, closing my eyes tightly as the teasing finger slowly slides inside of me. Even with just the single digit, and I flush hotly, gasping. I'm guided to lie on my side, and his touch leaves my legs distressingly, but only for a moment. He pulls down my leggings and tosses them onto the floor, then pulls his off as well.

 

I haven't much time to admire the visual of his bared lower half before he rolls me onto my back again and shifts in between my legs. Yet our hips don't meet just yet – his head dips to kiss at my breasts, his lips warm and eager, while his touch resumes its work between my thighs. I gasp and arch my back, eyes squeezing shut all over again. My hands cup behind his head, skin on skin, encouraging him. His mouth wends its way higher and higher, over my collarbone, up along my throat, to my jaw, lips, cheek, and then he whispers in my ear “when your leg is healed, perhaps I will have you from behind.”

 

A hard, needy grind from his hips rubs the underside of his shaft between my petals, where his hand just vacated. His flesh is firm against my clit and I groan luridly, tilting my head back in delicious torment. Every movement of his hips makes the contact between our flesh there slicker and slicker, and I shift my hips desperately, squirming, trying to angle myself so that he'll, maybe, slip inside by accident.

 

Of course it's not going to be that easy. Solas chuckles, his sinuous, perfect body slowly roiling on top of mine without taking me yet. It's aggravating, being tormented, and I grit my teeth and cross my legs over his hips, urging him closer. He smirks, bracing his knees more firmly on the bed, and he just begins to say something snotty when I growl and cup his cheeks to pull him in for a searing kiss. My tongue slips into his mouth, encouraging his to do the same to me when I withdraw it. When his tongue takes my invitation I suckle on it, cheeks hollowing gently, and that seems to crumble his resolve.

 

His hips shift beneath my legs, and I feel his head dip and press against my gates, then push slowly within. It's been a while, so despite how ready I am, the fit is very snug. As he slips inside inch by inch, I shudder and groan into his mouth. His whole body grows tense, and he stills, parting the kiss. In a husky, growled voice, he mumbles “give me a moment... it has been a long time...”

 

“Yeah... for me, too.” I gasp, trying to focus on cooling down just a little so this blessed experience can last more than three seconds.

 

Our passions temper enough that we begin to relax again, and pick up where we left off, if a touch more sedately. This time, his entry is less restricted, and I groan with lurid abandon as he suckle on my neck, sheathing himself slowly, again and again and again. My hips churn along with his, meeting him halfway, letting him press as far into me as he can, until our hips touch like puzzle pieces for just a moment before the cycle begins again.

 

My hands wander over his smooth shoulders and back, caressing him, and every so often my nails rake lightly over his skin. It's not hard enough to leave marks, but he shudders and moans against my flesh, and I can feel his cock twitch within me. My legs caress, my calves sliding over the rounds of his backside as they tense and move, his hips picking up speed and fervor.

 

And then he stops dead when I purr “do you want me on my hands and knees, Fen'Harel?”

 

A shudder runs through him, but he withdraws, panting softly as he gives me space to move. My skin tingles and I feel so warm, and when I move I feel empty, needing to be filled again. My ankle doesn't hurt at all, despite remaining stiff, as I take to my hands and knees, facing away from him. Even the slight air current of the room washes over my wet, secret, blushing flesh and I sigh, letting my back dip. I look over my shoulder at him invitingly, with my long white braid draped over my left shoulder.

 

He almost looks stricken, and his cock twitches again, dark, shining, and hard. That moment of pause is gone, and he moves forward, his hands sliding over my hips as he mounts me from behind. He sheathes himself easily, his hands hard as he seizes my left hip and my right shoulder, and I part my knees just a little more, until the angle is perfect. Now he takes me much harder, and I groan with pleasure at the roughness. Risking one's life over and over again... delicacy isn't prized as highly as passion. My right hand moves from the bed and slides down between my legs, and I use my fingers to rub in quick circles at my pearl.

 

It feels so, so good, and my head dips, my cheeks and the tips of my ears blushing hotly red. My hips buck just a little, and I keep rubbing harder and faster, my fingertips slick with my own need. The sharp, quick clap of his hips against mine sounds delicious and obscene and intimate, and I finally let go, letting myself sink into the shocking bliss of orgasm.

 

I jerk and cry out, shuddering as both hands move to grip at the sheets and brace. My hips press back, and Solas grunts, burying himself, grinding, burying himself once more, and then he, too, gasps. His hands are tight on my hips, both of them, and I can feel him thicken and pulse inside as he cums. My heart pounds in my chest and I pant slowly, my skin heated and tingling like mad.

 

It feels like ages, but has only been seconds that we've remained pressed together, and very slowly his fingertips relax, the dimples they'd made in my skin easing away. I grit my teeth as he withdraws from me, leaving me to feel so empty, and I gently come to rest on my hip, luxuriating in my post-coital bliss and laziness.

 

Beside me, Solas sinks onto the bed fully. His expression is a little hard to gauge, but if I were to guess, exertion, satisfaction, and simply being overwhelmed by all of this are at the forefront. I ease down to lie on my back next to him, turning my head to watch as he rises out of his stupor just a little to gaze at me. “You are... you're...” He lays his cheek on an outstretched arm, moaning softly on whispered breath.

 

“Magnificent?” I offer, smiling. He chuckles, and I smirk. “Aside from being Thedas' champion, I'm also terrific in bed.”

 

His grin is beautiful, and again my heart melts a little. “I'm sure such feats will go down in legend.”

 

“In all the tales told about you, not one of them mentioned your... skills, lets say” I purr, fluttering my eyelashes at him teasingly.

 

Solas just gives me a look, and clears his throat. “Ah well... I...”

 

I just raise my eyebrows, encouraging him to continue, if only to further fuel my amusement.

 

He gives me a look, and stumbles through the admission “I consulted with spirits of passion and desire, to know how to best... well... if I were to ever find you again. And if you were to ever accept me.”

 

There is really no way to interpret that without it coming off as scandalous. “How long were you looking for me?”

 

His secretive eyes flash with honesty, and he confides “years, Ellena. I would have been by your side far sooner, but I couldn't find you. I'm sorry.”

 

My hand moves to him, and I gently caress along his arm, smiling a little. “I didn't want to be found. Perhaps it's a compliment to my skills that not even the Dread Wolf could track me down right away.”

 

He shifts to lie on his side, his head pillowed by a curled arm as his free hand takes up mine, his fingers lacing tenderly with my own. “I feared the worst, but didn't stop. And then, at last, I picked up your trail two weeks ago, and cautiously followed at a distance since.”

 

I curl my fingers in his a little, and my arm mirrors his own, to pillow my head. “At a distance?”

 

Solas smiles bashfully. “I knew how you would feel, so I needed to wait for an opportune moment.”

 

Now my brows furrow. “You knew my ankle was injured.”

 

He nods. “Yes, your tracks showed it. I waited until I knew you couldn't bear it any longer.”

 

I huff. “So that I couldn't run away from you?”

 

He blinks, frowning. “No. So that when, inevitably, you pushed yourself to far, I would be there to pull you back from the edge.”

 

Again, my stubbornness rears its ugly head. “I pushed myself there because I was mad that you were following me.”

 

Now he just gives me a look. “Ellena... you would have pushed yourself even if I hadn't been. And... I think you would not have cared if the abyss had taken you.”

 

I look down, ashamed, and he squeezes my fingers. “I am here for you now. There are solutions. There is a future, ma vhenan.”

 

The heaviness in my chest ebbs slowly, and I feel my nose sting as I guiltily look back at him. He's right... I had no real end goal when I set out into the wild. Only to die there, alone, when I could go no further. “A future...” this next part is difficult, but I manage it, just barely, “...with you in it, with me?”

 

He nods, smiling a little, and his fingers curl warmly with my own. “Yes.”

 

My joy swells, my grin hurting my cheeks, but it fades after a moment. “I will grow old, Solas.”

 

Now he shifts, pushing himself up onto his elbow so that he can come closer and press a kiss to my forehead. “We will find a solution to that, too,” he murmurs against my skin. His eyes meet mine, comforting me, encouraging me to smile again. “You are not alone, Ellena. You have the Dread Wolf by your side...” As he gently guides me to lay on my back, he smoothly moves to loom over me, his eyes narrowed with delight as he makes my heart flutter all over again. “...and Fen'Harel is nothing if not full of tricks.”

 

 


	2. Solutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clock is ticking, and Ellena's leg is getting worse. She and Solas must seek out help, which leads to a happy reunion.

“Shh, ma vhenan, or they will hear you.”

 

I hold my breath and crouch silently in the shadows of the abandoned estate house. Birds sing outside, flitting from branch to branch of the enormous trees just beyond the front gates. Winter has come upon Thedas, but it never quite seems to reach the greenwood of the Emerald Graves. This is where Solas and I have journeyed to, so that we might wait out the cold, and in the mean time we have delighted in exploring ruins both old and new.

 

Because of the civil war some fifteen years ago, and the unrest between mages and templars, and the terror of Corypheus, the elites of Orlais have let their princely estates fall into disrepair. Ever since the cataclysm in Haven, no one has dared to venture out into the wilds, despite the end of such strife. People are still getting over the panic of the world nearly ending, and are reticent to leave the safety of their cities, armies, and their high stone walls.

 

Which is all the better for me and Solas, of course.

 

Right at this moment, we are hiding in a musty store room, listening past a wooden door as soldiers pass through. It's customary for them to inspect these places, to ensure that no bandits or demons or other unsavories take up residence. I suppose the irony is that the former Inquisitor and her foremost magical adviser now count among their number.

 

We listen carefully, measuring out breathing to make as little noise as possible. Heavy, bored boots march around the main floor now, the other rooms above having been checked and declared vacant. My heart beats harder in my chest – this is so foolhardy, and yet I love it. I know Solas does too, based on his delighted grin. We both tense when, suddenly, one of the soldiers calls out in a thick Ferelden accent “hey, what's this room? You lads been in there yet?”

 

Does he mean our store room? Boots wander over to the door, and one of them tries the handle, finding it unlocked. Very quietly Solas and I slip behind an old, dilapidated armoire, just barely able to squeeze in between it and the wall. Dusty light filters in from the open door, and the soldier peers around the room, seeing nothing but shelves, diaphanous spider webs, old crates, and stacked chairs. I can only listen, standing in the narrow space behind the tall furniture piece, but even so Solas slips his hand over my mouth, his warm palm and fingers sealing over my lips and cheek, but leaving my nose free.

 

I look over at him, frowning, and he just smiles with roguish playfulness at me. The soldier eventually gives up and wanders out, closing the door behind him. “Just a bunch of old shit, lads.”

 

“That it for this place?”

 

“Aye. Time to go get some dinner, eh?”

 

The others cheer with tired enthusiasm, likely having been on their shift, and on their feet, since the early morning. We listen until, at last, we hear the main door to the estate close with a heavy thud.

 

With great relief I breath out through my nose, pushing Solas' hand from my mouth. “Really. I can be just as quiet as you are,” I gripe, slipping out from behind the armoire.

 

He slips out from the other side, his long, slender legs carefully stepping over a fallen roll of carpet. “Oh yes, I know. But feeling your nervous breath slide over my knuckles makes it far more exciting for me.”

 

I just give him a look as I open the door, the wan, winter sunlight glinting on my garnet eyes, before I wander back out into the main landing. We'd only just arrived before the soldiers had, so luckily they hadn't found any signs of the habitation that is to come. They had spent quite a long time upstairs, so I can only guess that's where the bedrooms are, and so that's where I head to next.

 

Solas follows along, tipping open the cover of every book we come across to see if he's already read it or not. Most of those inspections end in the sort of disappointment that, if we are to be honest, inflates his ego. He delights in being well-read, and what's more, he delights in the fact that I know it. If I am in need of some obscure reference recollected, he can come up with the recitation within five minutes.

 

There's a library on the west wing of the second floor, so I bid Solas adieu for what is likely to be hours. Seeing his eyes light up makes me smile, and I head towards the east wing to inspect the bed rooms. There are several, all luxuriously appointed, and all in quite good repair in comparison to the other estates we've seen in the last few days. Not a speck of mold or dust lingers here. The mattress is comfortable, large, and soft, and the linens smell good. I'm quite tempted to strip out of my clothes and nap until I realize that I am, in point of fact, abominably dirty.

 

Surely a lovely chamber such as this must have an adjacent lovely bathroom. And soon I find it, and it's just as beautifully appointed. A large claw foot tub sits upon the tile, and I look at the faucets, biting my lip. Is the plumbing even functional still? How long ago was it abandoned? My hand reaches out, then stops before my fingers alight on the metal fixture. Will the pipes rattle and attract attention from outside? And then I reach forward that last few inches and twist. My relief is immense when hot water gushes out quietly, clean and steaming, into the ceramic basin.

 

With the stopper in place over the drain, I see to stripping out of my filthy travel clothes. Since Solas had quite literally pulled me back from the edge, he'd insisted that I take care of myself better, and that had included dressing myself in more comfortable clothing. The rags I'd lived in for five years have been replaced by black leather leggings, black leather boots that strap up to my knees, a black tunic in warm, soft wool, and a thinner linen shirt beneath for additional warmth. On top of all of it is a black heavy cloak with a hood – when we travel at night, I go so far as to pull up a black cloth over my nose and mouth, to keep the amount of exposed cream skin to a minimum. I have gloves too, of course, but those are currently tucked into my pocket, now that we're inside.

 

These items are set aside – I will wash them all later – but first I must wash myself. My hair, which I have taken to wearing in a braid of late, definitely requires washing, and the perpetual smudged dirt that has worked itself into the creases of my knuckles tells the same story. I look over at the basin and see that it's slowly filling, and will take a few minutes longer, and so I try to temper my impatience by taking a seat in a nearby chair to inspect my foot.

 

The sight isn't good. All autumn my ankle had been swollen and sore due to a wearing of the joint. My adventures have taken a toll on my body, and my left ankle has been the first to truly protest. Now, however, either due to further marks from the damage or some inevitable degradation, my foot is starting to have trouble with circulation. While the rest of my bare skin pinks slightly with the warmth of the bathroom, my foot remains somewhat mottled and ashy white and cold to the touch. It's going to be painful to introduce it to the hot water, when the nerves decide to wake up and complain again, despite the numbing spell Solas keeps placing on it.

 

There's nothing for it, unfortunately. Solas has been tending to it as well as he can, and despite the care of his medicines and magic, we are both coming to the conclusion that something will need to be done about this foot before summer comes around, and the cold of winter can no longer slow the damage. With a sigh I ease myself up over the lip of the basin, keeping my weight on my right foot and letting my left hover by my right calf. The water sloshes just a touch around my right ankle and shin, and I slowly lower myself into the delicious, warm bath.

 

And I enjoy it... right up until the second my ice cold left foot and ankle sink into the water. It's like hot blades as the flesh there thaws out, and my hands grip at the edges of the bath top desperately. Water sloshes as I grit my teeth and writhe, until at last I can't take it anymore and lift my foot out of the water and into the air. The skin is an ugly mix of purples and pinks, blotchy and unhealthy, and I only just realize that I'd cried out in pain when a huge, dark brown wolf crashes through the doors and skids to a stop on the tile floor.

 

He looks at the tub, sees my foot steaming in the air, then winces. I wince too, clearing my throat. “I'm sorry...” I offer apologetically. “I didn't mean to worry you.”

 

The wolf breathes out slowly and pads over, taking a look at my foot as I rest it on the edge of the tub, grimacing at even that light contact. “It's getting worse,” he mutters, padding closer and resting his jaw on the tub's edge near my hand.

 

His sadness makes me sigh – we're quickly nearing the time when I need to make a decision, as our options are running out. My wet, warm fingers caress along his muzzle to comfort him. I think the thought of me losing this foot and becoming crippled for life bothers him more than it does me. “Then we find a solution. Just like you keep telling me.” My voice is a soft murmur, and he closes his eyes, breathing out slowly through his wet, black nose.

 

His tongue slides out to caress my wrist, then slips back in behind his teeth before he asks “aside from this... does it hurt you?”

 

I shake my head. “Only when it warms up in hot water. Other than that, your tending keeps it numb. It's stiff all the time, though.”

 

He nods, then lifts his muzzle from my hands, and I lean my head back against the tub's edge, my long hair pillowed beneath my skull. I watch him as the form of the wolf fades, and Solas reappears, fully dressed. Somehow, despite all our traveling, he always manages to keep surprisingly clean. Or maybe I'm just used to a small amount of travel dirt at this point. The tall, slender elf caresses his fingertips along the tub until they reach my hand, and his fingers lace gently within mine. “I'd join you, but I don't want to risk injuring you.”

 

My fingers curl in his, and I flush just a little. “It annoys me that I don't want to risk it either,” I grumble, a brow arched.

 

His steps slowly take him around to the end of the tub where my head is resting, and he braces his palms on the edges by my shoulders, chuckling to himself. He bends at the waist, his head dipping in so that he can place warm kisses along my cheekbone and ear, and like clockwork I blush and swallow. With only that small affection my nipples are already hard pink points just above the swirling, steaming water's surface, and when I tilt my head to offer him more of my neck, I moan softly when he takes me up on it.

 

I'm at the point where my hips are starting to just gently move against the smooth bottom of the tub when Solas smiles and purrs “well, I shall leave you to your bath.” I watch, astonished, as he saunters lazily from the bathroom back to the bedroom. And I listen, frowning, cheeks hotly flushed, as his footsteps carry him back to the west wing and its library.

 

“That... bastard,” I huff, sinking slowly into the water until only my frowning, garnet eyes linger just above the surface.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Later that night, with my ankle and foot bandaged and Solas' elfroot potion taking effect, I feel quite comfortable as we lounge naked in our appropriated bed together. We've drawn all the curtains so that the lights of the candles don't give us away, and the illumination makes him look utterly delicious, as usual. Having been stuck in one shape with precious little privacy for so long all those years ago, now he insists on sleeping naked. He won't hear any complaints from me – I like to sleep that way too.

 

The blissful, post-coital lethargy is still making my limbs feel heavy, and as I lay on my side and luxuriously read through one of the more tawdry novels I'd found in the library, Solas remains on his back, arms crossed beneath his bald head. Despite his eyes being closed, I know he's deep in thought, given how his brows are just slightly furrowed.

 

I nudge a crisp, slightly yellowed page over, and glance over at him curiously. “How is your neck?”

 

One of his dark brows lifts, and he tilts his head just a little. The bite mark I'd left on his skin stretches slightly, making him smile and wince at the same time. “Mmm, still a touch sore.” His stormy eyes open, still half-lidded, and he asks in turn “and your thigh?”

 

My legs shift at the question, and the smooth inner plane of my right thigh, marked by a matching bite in pink, rubs against my left, and I smile. “I suppose I'll recover.” With a snap, the book closes in my hand, and I set it on the side table, stretching long with my arms behind my head. “The healing will be faster if you kiss it better.” I flutter my eyelashes at him, and he smiles almost shyly. I don't think it had ever occurred to him before that mouths can be used down there for sex, too. For a moment I nibble on the inside of my cheek, then frown at him. “For someone who loved the scandal of the court, you are painfully ill-informed about carnal pleasures.”

 

He pouts moodily, pushing himself up to rest on an elbow. “Oh come, now. I'm learning, as you well know.”

 

Really, he's very cute when he's pouting. I shift closer, placing a light kiss on the tip of his nose. “Oh yes, you're an excellent student,” I whisper, sliding my hand over his smooth chest. That seems to balm his ego nicely, and he relaxes.

 

My fingertips explore the elegant structures of his collarbone and shoulder while my lips leave a slow trail of kisses along his cheekbone, until at last he begins “I have thought long about this...”

 

I shift back touch so that I can look into his eyes, and he continues. “As we have discussed, your foot and ankle need medical attention. Any surgeon can... well...”

 

“Take it off?” I offer, and while he looks slightly disgusted and offended at the thought, he nods.

 

“Indeed. While any skilled surgeon can relieve you of it, it will take someone with special talents to let you keep walking without it.”

 

Please don't say Morrigan. Please don't say Vivienne.

 

His features take on a touch of strain, and he tentatively adds “we will, however, have to travel to Tevinter.”

 

“Dorian!” I haven't thought of him in ages. Of all the people in Skyhold, I got along with him best. It might have been because we are both mages, or perhaps because we come from cultures so vastly different from Ferelden's or Orlais'. Either way, we were perhaps as close as his predilections would allow, and I was very sorry to see him return to Tevinter a year or two after the defeat of Corypheus. “You've been in contact with him?”

 

Solas nods. “Off and on. He knows how to keep a secret, of course. He is concerned about you, and has told me that he may have an option to help you.”

 

For a moment I frown, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Sending correspondence by raven is inviting Leliana to find where we are.”

 

His arrogant smile is an assurance all its own, and he shrugs, gesturing with his elegant hand. “Not a single bird has flown to carry my messages. I visit Dorian in dreams, and we have conversations.”

 

I blanch just a touch, murmuring “I can only imagine what his dreams are like.”

 

The elf thinks for a moment, then his eyes lift to mine. “They are exquisite. I can think of no better term.”

 

My smirk is inevitable. “That sounds like Dorian. Is he expecting us?”

 

Solas inclines his head. “He knows that we cannot travel in the conventional methods, but his life, at present, is, as he says 'suffocatingly predictable'. If we knock upon the servant's door of his estate at midnight on any night, we will be allowed in.”

 

“How clandestine...” I purr, feeling my smile grow. “When shall we leave?”

 

The elf beside me moves his hand to my shoulder and gently guides me to lie on my back, smiling devilishly. “Tomorrow morning, before dawn...” His head dips, and I sigh softly as his lips kiss along my pointed ear, his sultry voice murmuring “...but let's put this fine bed through its paces at least one more time.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

To say that I often have the Dread Wolf between my legs would be an understatement. A huge percentage of those instances, of course, are platonic in nature – because of the limits on my mobility these days, I sit astride the large wolf's back, letting him carry us across Thedas as we now wander north towards Tevinter.

 

His tireless, loping stride carries us for miles and miles every day, up north through the Dales, around the Waking Sea, through Nevarra, and then across the border into Tevinter itself. Despite having lived in a time when travel through the eluvians was common place, I get the feeling that Solas prefers to travel on foot, and that he enjoys the journey possibly more than the destinations he selects.

 

Our destination this time is Minrathous, the city of Dorian's birth. Solas and I avoid the Imperial Highway, keeping to the fields, forests, and foothills of the the High Reaches to maintain our privacy. The weather here is more temperate, and I have set aside my woolen cloak in favor of a black linen hood to hide my features from those who might remember the look of the former Inquisitor. At a certain point a large wolf is going to be entirely too noticeable, so Solas and I proceed on two feet each, at last joining the highway just before it flows into the city itself. We have procured a staff for my use as a cane. In a land ruled by mages, having a staff in hand might come in handy.

 

We have taken measures to avoid looking Dalish – city elves are tolerated in Tevinter, but the more wild varieties, as we're called, are said to receive quite a hard time, even now. Solas has, at long last, abandoned his pelts and wools for tailored linens and leathers in blacks and grays, and a long cloak all in black. That neither Solas nor I bear a Vallaslin helps in this endeavor, though I will always question the wisdom of having had him remove mine.

 

Our sojourn on the highway is far from lonely. Countless lines of carriages flow in, heaped high with goods, while empty carts are drawn out. With our hoods drawn up, we glance to the left and right at all times to avoid getting out feet crushed by hooves or wheels – truly, there is very little room as we pass through the main gates of the city. Once inside, however, the roads widen considerably, and the traffic seems to naturally flow into a predetermined order. Raised walkways are provided for pedestrians, and Solas and I take to these.

 

We have a few hours to kill, despite the sun having set long since, and so we meander through the city. In all my years as Inquisitor I had never visited this place. I've been within the borders of Tevinter for diplomatic missions, but I had never thought to visit this city, perched so opulently on the tip of the peninsula, like a drop of dew on a flower petal. Like Qarinus, Minrathous is constructed of imposing, angular stonework, metal edges, and dragon motifs.

 

Unlike Qarinus, however, Minrathous has far more pleasure houses.

 

Somehow I convince Solas to explore one with me, and I find that, rather than some discrete brothel like one might find in Ferelden, this establishment is large and caters to almost all fleshly pleasures, not the least of which being food and drink. We dine at a table in a private, shadowy alcove where we can look upon the many stages and see both men and women dancing in nothing but silks to unobtrusive, beautiful music. The wine helps me relax, as it must do with Solas, because we soon find ourselves kissing, our hands wandering in plain view of our empty plates and glasses.

 

I'm bemused but not surprised that upstairs there are gorgeous, well-appointed salons to be rented by the hour, and we select a more modest one. Our coin, thanks to our forays in the wild, is plentiful, but even so we don't need something outrageous. When we turn the key in the lock and open the door to our moonlit room, we are greeted with the sight of a bed in the center and beautifully wrought iron cencers hanging from the ceiling at the four corners, lazily leaking purple and blue smoke that smells of flowers and spices. Blue moonlight pours in through the large window opposite the door, and all the other details are lost to the shadows.

 

The silvery sheets crumple and wrinkle as I guide Solas to lay down on them, and to his lascivious, slightly intoxicated delight, I only unfasten his belt and his trousers and pull them down to his thighs. I do the same with my own, the give of the material just enough that I can straddle him still. Our bare flesh touches and caresses, hidden by the fall of my tunic. He groans at the tease of being denied the sight of us, his hands moving to my hips, and I caress along his sleeved arms, smiling from beneath the shadow of my hood.

 

His back arches when I finally reach beneath the drapes of cloth to orient him and sink down upon his readiness. Given my steady diet of amorous affection, I'm not quite so impenetrably tight as I was that very first time with him, so these impulsive, sordid little trysts are easier. He slides into my warm, wet, snug depths (I'm still a petite woman, despite being well-loved), and he groans, his fingers gripping at my tunic.

 

The way those dancers had moved, it was like they were made of smoke rather than flesh and bone. I try to emulate their smoothness and fluidity with my hips and lower back as I ride him, sliding my hands up from my stomach to my chest, to feel at the hidden breasts within. My head rolls back with pleasure, and I spy a chain hanging down from the ceiling, threaded with silver silk ribbons. My gloved hands lift and grip it, and I find that it's anchored quite sturdily, enough so that I can use the strength of my arms as well as my thighs to move now.

 

Solas's face, half shadowed by his own hood, is enrapt, the silvery blue moonlight accentuating his angular features and beautiful skin. With my hands otherwise occupied, he slips his right one in beneath the front drape of my tunic, and with his palm braced on the crux of my thigh, he uses his thumb to add to my pleasure, rubbing in quick, firm circles over my pearl. I shudder and ride him faster. I won't last long like this, and despite trying to slow my pace upon him it's no use. At last I gasp, tighten, and spill myself on him. The toes on my right foot curl tightly, and my body is taut like a bow string.

 

He's careful when he sits up, helping to maneuver me onto my back despite my pounding heart and my injured ankle and foot. His mouth crushes against mine hungrily, our lips and tongues tasting of wine, and he continues what I'd started. The force of his passion makes the bed frame squeak in complaint, and I grip at the silver sheets beneath us, my eyes squeezed shut. The kiss parts and I pant, moaning with every thrust, until at last he buries himself deeply within me one last time. His cock thickens and pulses now and again as he spends himself, his heated forehead pressed against my own.

 

Having been with him so long now, and finally his lover in all ways, I know that I have little to worry about when it comes to a child. I'm too old now – I'm not a crone, far from it, but those days of fretting about accidents are long gone. Besides, given who and what Solas really is, I'm not sure he could father a child on an elf, or any other mortal creature. I've never asked him about it. Such matters are private even in the most mundane circumstances, and ours are anything but mundane. Fen'Harel doesn't part with his secrets all that often, even though he makes some exception for me.

 

Tiredly, Solas withdraws and lays on his back, pulling up his pants once again. I do the same, my tingling fingers fumbling with the buttons of this garment for a moment before managing it. I blame it on the wine. As he slides his hands over his face, likely trying to will himself towards greater wakefulness, I slip from the bed and move to the window, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed over my chest, looking up at the moon. “I'd say it's time to call on him.”

 

Solas eases himself up to sit, pulling his cloak back into neatness, and assuring that the hood is covering him once again. He walks up behind me and places his hands warmly on my hips, kissing and suckling on the tip of my left ear. Despite having just spent my pleasures on him, I flush and my back dips a touch, my hips pressing back against his own. “Yes, we'd best make our way there,” he murmurs hotly against my cheek.

 

I so want to give in to him. Truly I do. To brace my hands against the wall and unfasten my pants all over again, and be rutted in a span of minutes, start and done. There are a number of lurid, obscene scenarios I've fantasized about with him, but I'm too embarrassed to suggest any of them. At least for the time being. It's just as well, as the clock is ticking down on this night's invitation. We both take a moment to groom ourselves a tad, washing our faces and hands free of any traces of tonight's dinner and its show.

 

Dorian's not one to judge one's appetites, but he will always judge one's appearance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Just at midnight we turn down the right street at last, a winding paved serpent clinging to the hills overlooking the city and port below. Dorian's manse is settled into the hill, the structure stately and beautiful and gleaming with moonlight. Vines trail up the columns at the front, and delicate, exotic night birds coo and warble gently, matching the relaxing splash of a fountain nearby. Solas tracks down the servant's entrance, a discrete black door in the shadowed backside of the structure, and he knocks.

 

Perhaps a half minute later, we can hear the locks being undone, and the door pushes outwards while a handsome, lissome elven man with olive skin and black hair look out at us with amber eyes. His expression is somewhat judgmental at first, but given that neither of us have facial markings (and I know that he's just checked), he breathes out a small sigh of relief. Perhaps the Dalish give the city elves of Tevinter a hard time as well, especially the ones around here.

 

“You're here to see the Master, I take it?” he asks crisply, and for a moment I'm almost certain the young man's related to Solas.

 

I give my companion a glance, and he smiles at me, then back at the servant. “That's correct. He should be expecting us.”

 

Despite the shadows, I can almost see the young man roll his eyes. There's a good chance that a great many people come calling on the estate for one thing or another, quite possibly at all hours. “Might I have your names?”

 

Solas pauses for a minute, but I frown. “No. Now you have three minutes to go and inform Master Pavus of our arrival, or I will reconstruct this house brick by brick to find him myself.” A coil of electricity slithers up the staff in my right hand, crackling in the humid night air for a moment. “Am I well understood?”

 

My partner remains quiet, simply watching as the young man swallows. “Quite well. If you would come with me, please.”

 

“Thank you.” My hackles are still raised, and I can almost feel the mirth in Solas' touch as he caresses my lower back to help calm me. After all the rudeness, selfishness, and cruelty I'd experienced in my time as Inquisitor, I haven't the patience for one more second of it.

 

We pass through the dark kitchen area, then up a stair case to the second floor. There's a reading room there, and he invites us to make ourselves comfortable. When asked if we'd require refreshments, Solas graciously demures, saving me the trouble of trying to become polite and patient once again. I look out the window and admire the glittering sea beyond the harbor, and the sight helps to calm me considerably. Solas busies himself with the books, settling down in a comfortable arm chair as he skims one of the older tomes.

 

Some minutes later, I turn my head at the sound of footsteps approaching down the hall. Solas looks up from his book, making the movement seem casual even though his eyes are on guard. The door opens, and I know it's Dorian even before the shadows reveal his face – his outfit still glints and gleams from little decorative metal plates. Unlike the traveling armor he used to wear, his attire now is meant for leisure, the materials dark, well tailored, and draped elegantly about his handsome form.

 

I'm nervous at first – I haven't seen him in over a decade – but he strides over to me boldly, standing at the window to get a good look at arm's length. “Ellena, I'm so happy to see you,” he confides, and I can hear the worry in his voice. “There wasn't a word after you left, not one, and I feared the worst! You cannot know how much I've annoyed Leliana with my demands for news.”

 

I can't quite help it, and I smile self-consciously. At that expression, Solas relaxes back into his chair, the frame creaking the smallest bit. He'd been watchful and tense on my behalf, my loyal protector. “You'd best be careful,” I caution. “She's the divine now.”

 

Dorian rolls his eyes and gestures dismissively with his hand. “Oh yes, how grand,” he drolls. His hazel eyes turn towards Solas, and he inclines his head. “Good to see you too, old man. Glad you finally found her.”

 

The Tevinter mage turns to look at me guiltily. “He asked for my help to find you, perhaps two years ago. I gave him all the information I had, which was very little. Since then he's kept me updated on his searches.” He smiles a little, and admits “I begged him to. You're one of my dearest friends, you know.”

 

Solas chuckles in the chair and keeps reading his book, and I sigh, admittig “It took some convincing from Solas to get me here. He claims that I'm stubborn.”

 

Dorian laughs merrily, and curls his arm around my waist, guiding me to sit in the group of chairs that Solas is already occupying. “Stubborn? _You_? That's slanderous. You've always been so fickle with your convictions.” He sniffs, fussing with his mustache. “I hardly thought the Inquisition would last a week. Imagine my surprise when the world didn't end.”

 

Our host eases into one of the chairs only after I take up a spot next to Solas out of habit. Dorian flicks an eyebrow, then smiles rakishly, steepling his fingertips and crossing one leg over the other, ankle on the knee. I settle back into my chair and give him a measuring look. “What?”

 

Despite the streaks of silver hair on his temples, Dorian hasn't changed in the least. Time has been very kind to him. “Oh, nothing at all. Just a little hope I'd had.” I raise an eyebrow, and he continues “the hope that a certain follicly challenged gentleman would remain a gentleman, and do the right thing by you.”

 

Solas, still looking down at his book, mumbles “Dorian would endlessly prod me to try and mend the hurts I'd caused you, ma vhenan.”

 

The soft blush that rises on Solas' cheeks makes me smile, and I relax and consider Dorian once more. “I can think of no better man to do the prodding.” That makes his mustache curl with delight, and I glance at the door before looking back at him. “Speaking of, your servant is unbearably attractive.”

 

“Isn't he, though?” the mage purrs with delight, closing his eyes. “His name is Callum. It's amusing to him – he selected the name after entering my service. It means White Dove, you see.”

 

Now I'm curious. “Why did he go so far as to change his name?”

 

“Because I bought him, you see.”

 

Even Solas looks up, a little startled at the admission.

 

Dorian lifts his brows, then raises his hands. “Oh! No no, you misunderstand. I bought him to satisfy the law, and then I freed him. Paid off his debt to Tevinter. Callum chose to stay in my employ after that. He's a good fellow. Very protective.”

 

My tone is a touch cool as I quip “yes, we know.”

 

The mage just smiles, then leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You nearly made the poor boy shit himself. Whatever did you say to him?”

 

I glance at Solas, who has returned to his book, and I look back at Dorian, smiling. “That is my little secret. I didn't become Inquisitor for nothing.” Was I this sassy back at Skyhold?

 

Dorian laughs and claps his hands once with glee. “Without a doubt! Oh Ellena, I'm so pleased that you're here. You must allow me to spoil you both for as long as you like.”

 

To my surprise, Solas speaks up, lifting his eyes from his borrowed book. “I wouldn't say no to some spoiling.”

 

“And you shall have it, my good man.” Our host gets up from his seat, and both Solas and I rise to stand as well. Dorian must catch sight of how I favor my left leg, because his enthusiasm tempers a little, and his concern becomes discrete. “And we will see to that as well, my dear. Directly.” I nod, and he leads us out of the parlor and down the hall. With the staff and the treatment Solas has been giving me, I've learned to walk brief distances on it without stumbling, though now the ankle joint hardly moves. Dorian offers his arm but I decline, too stubborn to accept help even though that's exactly why we've come in the first place.

 

Dorian leads us to a locked door, and he pulls a ring of keys from his belt, murmuring to himself. “This one? No, no. Ah, yes! Here we are.” The iron key is slipped into the lock and the mechanism crackles, unlatching in several places around the edge of the door in a flurry of clicks. Clearly this is a lock with some special features. Whatever's in the room must be something not fit even for his servants to stumble upon.

 

Our host leads us inside, a few casual flicks of his wrist lighting the candles and sconces. My eyes widen a touch at all the instruments gleaming on the walls. They'd look sinister if I didn't trust Dorian so much. Knives, shears, blades, saws – and that's just on the wall to the right. The other walls hold other items, some having to do with restraint, while still others have coils of slender tubing.

 

My eyes narrow as I try to divine what the tubes are for, when Dorian's voice startles me. “Might as well have a look. If you would have a seat.” I turn to look at him, then at the ceiling, where a mechanism lowers a steel table by chains at the four corners. It gleams with cleanliness, and he halts the descent at the level of my thigh. A metal frame rises up from the floor from below until it meets the bottom of the table and clicks into it, leaving the surface very sturdy to the touch.

 

Solas helps me get onto it, and I unfasten my left boot, letting it drop onto the floor unceremoniously. While my paramour stands on the right side of the table, Dorian circles around to the left, his brow furrowed. I hold my breath as he slides my leather leggings up to my knee. “Good lord, Ellena. What have you done to yourself?”

 

In the light, it's easy to see how much worse my foot has gotten even since that night in the Emerald Graves. The marbled look has deepened into an angry purple veined with black, and the ankle is thicker with swelling. I only notice now how the toes are blackened and dead.

 

After a great deal of examination, Dorian sighs. “There's nothing for it, I'm afraid. It shall have to come off.” He gives me a look, and mutters “this is going to be deucedly unpleasant, my dear.”

 

Past tense lips, I mutter “you say the nicest things.” He looks at me patiently, and I swallow, nodding. “Best do it now.”

 

Dorian inclines his head, then looks at Solas. “I'll need you to take off the spell on her calf and knee.” To me, he says “He must remove it so that I can carry out the surgery at all – no instruments will make a dent until it's gone. And to double up on pain relief is dangerous – your heart may stop. But once he removes the spell, I must begin immediately – there is something very wrong with your leg. You won't have time for the new spell to take effect before you feel pain.”

 

I nod, gritting my teeth. Solas looks torn, his lips a tense line, but he takes in a deep breath through his nose, lays a hand on my left shin, and looks into my eyes. “Just look at me, ma vhenan. Don't look away.”

 

I take in a deep breath, lie down, and nod. Solas closes his eyes, and I feel the tingle of magic around my left leg, and then the notable absence of it. I don't have long to wait, when suddenly my heart rate picks up, and my breathing hitches. The sensation is like all of my nerves waking up from a sleeping limb, but the electric sting turns into fiery blades with each passing heart beat. It feels like lava is sluggishly pushing up my veins, making its way towards my knee. “Solas... Solas! SOLAS!” I cling to his sleeves and shift, as if I can somehow get away from the agony in my foot. Dorian quickly ties something tightly around my leg, just above the joint of my knee, and despite the crackle of a powerful spell, the pain is still present.

 

Solas cups my cheek, his expression as distressed as he feels, but he won't let me turn my head to see the damage. “Look at me, Ellena! Keep looking at me!” I try to hard to keep looking into his eyes, but I'm crying out in pain. I can't stop myself.

 

I can just barely register Dorian's voice, but I can tell he's frustrated and dismayed. There's the clatter of a metal instrument being placed back on a table. He says something to Solas, and the elf actually shouts at him in anger. It's so hard to understand what's going on. My vision's swimming, turning all to violets and blues, the molten agony is creeping up my calf, and then a spell is cast, and I feel the most nauseating sensation - the sheering snap of bone and cartilage. It feels like my heart drops into my guts, and the room begins to spin all around me.

 

Solas takes me in his arms, hugging me close to him until all I can feel is his embrace. “It's done.”

 

My fingers are cold as they grip at him, and I close my eyes. I'm lain down again on the table, and I hear many things. Winches and the clank of chains. Flames roaring to life. A strange, unearthly shriek coiling into the room and then dying away. The nearly imperceptible thrum of a shield spell surrounds me, and then it slowly dies away.

 

The funny thing about shield spells is that they protect the recipient from all manner of assault for a little while. Including olfactory. With the shield gone, I suddenly smell it.

 

Blood.

 

Lots of it.

 

I frown and look, and despite Solas trying to prevent it, I see dark red smears on the table. When I shift and slowly brace myself on my elbows, the heel of my right boot slips in it, squealing on the metal. And then I smell it – coppery and hot, along with the smell of cauterized flesh. “I'm alright” I whisper, and it takes him a few moments to believe me before he gently lets go and helps me sit up properly.

 

Now, while I'd suspected that whatever had been causing me pain required my lower leg to be removed, actually seeing it gone is, in a word, horrifying. A tight strap is tied off just above my knee, and just below it is a stump of flesh no longer than my hand. The wound itself is a flat plane, as if a spell had sliced cleanly through it. A swirl of purple light slithers around the strap, and I would guess that the spell is something to block the nerves and keep the wound numbed. The magic is working now at last, but I'm still agitated and sick from the pain moments ago.

 

My eyes move over to Dorian, who stands at a work table by the wall. My removed limb is resting on a tray, looking horrific – rotted and black – and I frown, turning to Solas. He rubs my back slowly. “If I didn't know better, I'd say your leg had acquired a...mmm...”

 

While he looks for the word, Dorian offers “magical taint.”

 

I meet his eyes, and he just smiles with a bit of morbid apology. Solas clears his throat, continuing “yes, indeed. It's almost like... a disease, but from the Fade, had made its home in your ankle, then began to spread over time.”

 

That makes my mind reel. “A disease from the Fade? The last rift I closed was some six years back.” That would account for the shriek I heard. Everything in the Fade is a spirit, and apparently that includes its illnesses.

 

Solas nods, his mood lifting a touch as he descends into academics. “Time flows differently for spirits. Even for the smallest organisms there. An infection in this world may fester over the course of weeks. Yours only truly showed signs years later.”

 

“A likely reason why the leg looks like this now – your disease was keeping it alive for you, but eventually even its magic couldn't cope” Dorian adds. “When your limb was separated from your body, the infection couldn't leach any power from you anymore, and the flesh rapidly decayed. In seconds, mind you. Fascinating.”

 

I feel disgusting, and I swallow. “So I've had this infection for years?”

 

Dorian muses “possibly since you fell into the Fade directly, fifteen years ago. Were you injured there?”

 

Again I swallow. My throat feels so dry. “Of course. We all fought there. We all were scratched and struck and bitten.”

 

Solas thinks. “What did the demons, the Fearlings, look like to you? Cassandra had mentioned in her report that they'd seemed like maggots crawling in filth.”

 

Even remembering the experience makes me shudder. “Spiders. For me they were spiders.”

 

Dorian nods. “The pattern of damage certainly looks like the sort of necrosis typical of venom, just delayed.”

 

“Did you get it all? Am I infected elsewhere?” I ask anxiously. It's distressing to think I'm still riddled with some spiritual pathogen.

 

Solas moves around the table to take a look at my truncated limb. “Since we have begun traveling together, I haven't noticed any signs elsewhere on you. It would seem, as luck would have it, that the taint was localized.”

 

I grit my teeth and slowly stretch what remains of my left leg. All the muscles feel strained and cramped, and I suppose I shouldn't be shocked at how much lighter it feels. “Fascinating as this might be... can someone bandage this?”

 

Solas nods, and when he looks around for supplies, Dorian is already holding out a roll of bandages. The elf takes them up and sets to work, carefully pressing sterile pads to the wound before winding the bandages around it all. His hands are gentle, and despite still feeling somewhat disgusted by having been so summarily shortened, I don't mind him tending to me. At this point, he's probably the only person I'd allow near it.

 

Which is a problem, given what Dorian says next.

 

“So, with that gone, we must make sure that you can still walk on your own. And that will require a prosthesis.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully, taking a look at the bandaged limb. “Perhaps something in silver. Enchanted, of course, and jointed to move like a normal leg, when all is said and done.”

 

I'm certain that, had I not just had my leg surgically removed, I'd probably be very interested in working out the designs and functionality. As it is, however, I churlishly scowl and pivot on my hip, my legs now dangling over the edge of the table. I aim to land on my right foot and bear my weight on it, and I nearly manage it until my knee buckles. The blood loss, nearly going into shock, the pain, all of it hits me right then. Dorian drops what he's doing and rushes over, grabbing me around my waist.

 

The last straw is feeling the sole of my right boot slide on the floor, slippery with my own blood, and having no left foot there to catch me. “I'm going to be sick...” I growl, clenching my teeth. Solas spots a bucket and pushes it into my hands just in time, and tonight's lovely dinner makes a reappearance, splashing hotly into the bottom of it.

 

I heave a few more times, but it would seem that the once was enough. Dorian's arms only let go when Solas collects me, and while I lose track of the bucket, I can't imagine Dorian would allow it to just clatter to the floor and spill its contents. Not in his work space.

 

I'm mumbling apologies even as I'm carefully picked up and cradled against Solas' chest. Within moments I'm brought to a dark bedroom and lain on a soft bed. Whatever smears of my blood had remained on my boot are wiped away, and he gently undresses me before wiping a warm, wet cloth over my skin. The taste of vomit is still in my mouth, sweet and acrid, and when I ask for water I find he has a cup of it already prepared, and helps me sit up to drink it.

 

Tears slide down my cheeks as I sit there in the dark, naked and feeling somewhat mutilated, despite having given my permission for it. When I finish, I look around for the pitcher, but Solas gently takes the cup from me, refills it, and hands it back.

 

Miserably I sip at it, feeling weak and ugly and old, and I don't pay much attention as Solas takes a seat behind me. His hands are gentle as he guides a comb through my hair, untangling the knots near the tips at first, and humming a gentle tune. It's soothing, and I finally begin to come down from my panic. In time I realize that he's singing just under his breath, and when I listen closely, I hear:

 

“ _Elgara vallas, ma vhenan,_

_Melava somniar_

_Mala tara aravas_

_Ara ma'desen melar...”_

 

The comb's teeth slide through my silken tips at last, and his hands gently take up a handful of locks a little higher up, just behind my shoulder blades.

 

“ _Iras ma ghilas, ma'arlath_

_Ara ma'nedan ashir_

_Dirthara lothlenan'as_

_Bal emma mala dir”_

 

Empty for some time now, the cup lingers in my hands, cradled in my lap. My head remains bowed and my eyes are closed as I listen to Solas sing to me. A warmth suffuses my cheeks and I breathe out slowly, letting the tension and the bitterness flow past my lips and into the sweet-smelling darkness of Dorian's guest quarters. His hands slide through the combed hair, enjoying its softness, and I sigh as he gently tips my head until my jaw is level with the mattress, to slide the comb over my scalp.

 

“ _Tel'enfenim, ma vhenan'ara_

_Irassal ma ghilas_

_Ma garas mir renan_

_Ara ma'athlan vhenas_

_Ara ma'athlan vhenas.”_

 

By the end of his singing, my hair is free of tangles, smooth, and clean. His fingers caress over my temples and behind my ears, then down the back of my neck. A shiver ripples down my spine, countless muscles finally starting to uncramp. His palms slide down over my bare shoulder blades and then slowly up again, his fingers curving over the saddle bows of my shoulders, guiding me to lie back against him.

 

With so many pounds of leg gone, I'd tip back clumsily if it weren't for his supportive hands. Am I really this exhausted that I'm falling asleep even as he lets my head come to rest in his lap? Is he bewitching me? Perhaps, but I don't mind. There's peace in dreams, blessed peace.

 

Just before I fall asleep, my eyes peel open just a little, just enough to look at Solas' face in the darkness, and I whisper “ _Ma serannas, ma sa'lath_ ” before slipping away to dreams.

 


	3. The Herald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellena's new leg is gifted to her, and now that she's whole and well, it's time for her to take her true place in the world.

# The Herald

 

 

When I open my eyes, I'm not in Dorian's guestroom anymore. I'm cuddled beneath blankets in a tent that flaps in a lazy night breeze. The scents of open fields and Dalish cooking linger in the fabric of things, and as my eyes adjust to the starlight, I can see familiar shapes - the curves of the embroidery and the metallic threads that gleam in the light. The halla are all bedded down, most with their chins turned to rest on their white backs, sleeping while one keeps watch, turning its head to me as I sit up within the tent.

 

Its slender ears turn towards me, its dark eyes taking in my familiar sight. A puff of air pushes out of its nose, fogging in the chilly night. My skin prickles only now, only upon seeing that, and I pull on my clothes – my light green leggings that leave my toes and heels uncovered, a long gray tunic, and a wool cloak over the rest. It's a beautiful night as I walk out into it, passing by the halla on watch and caressing along its cheek. It grunts happily – I've always loved our halla – and if I weren't being trained to be the First to our Keeper, I would have chosen to mind the animals.

 

We're camped far north in the Free Marches right now, though I expect our southern journey will begin soon, given the approach of winter. Another jet of fogged breath blasts from the halla's slitted nose, and it suddenly turns its head towards the trees, its ears erect, muscles tense. I turn to look too, my garnet eyes wide, and though I don't see anything, I can feel that something is in there, tucked into the darkness.

 

The halla receives another pet before I strike off nervously towards the woods. “Hello?” I call out softly, swallowing down a tense throat. I'm not even sure why I'm walking into the woods alone – I should be waking our scouts and hunters. Who am I to do this? Some little mageling only in her 15th year. Still... I want to go. I want to see what's in the dark. The lack of light is no deterrent, and whatever dwells there will be discovered. I will know it.

 

I'm well into the tree line now, and the sounds of the evening seem loud and crisp to my ears. My bare feet crackle the fallen leaves on the ground, but I keep going, watching with wide eyes, listening, trying to feel if there is any magic here. It feels like there is, all around, but I can't find a source. I'm jittery and excited, and I can feel my pulse lift. Every beat of my heart feels like a countdown towards something inevitable, until, at last, I just see movement from the corner of my right eye.

 

The back of a hand strikes my cheek, and I grit my teeth as my head is flung in the same direction, caught by surprise. In my slight disorientation, my assailant grabs my long white hair and shoves my back against a tree. When I open my eyes, I can see that it's Melandris, daughter of our Keeper. She snarls in my face, furious, and I stare wide-eyed. My cloak scrapes at the dry bark, sending chips down into the leaf litter, but she doesn't let go.

 

“You stole _everything_ from me!” she hisses, her beautiful lilac eyes narrowing with hate.

 

My cheeks flush and my eyes water. “Mel, no, I didn't mean to...”

 

She firms up her grip on my hair, making me cry out with pain. “We took you in. Clan Lavellan took you in, and Mother liked you better. Better than her own daughter, and made you First!” Melandris seethes.

 

What can I say to that? She hadn't come into her magic yet when I was taken on as a foster when we were twelve.

 

Her throat works, swallowing, and her hands move, gripping my shoulders, her fingernails digging in even through the wool and linen. “I have dreams, Ellena! Horrible dreams! I wake up, and my bedding is singed! I don't know what's going on!” She pushes away from me and grips her head in frustration, the marks of her Vallaslin glinting silver in the moonlight, standing out from her tanned skin. “There isn't room enough in the clan for more mages! I'll be sent away!”

 

I push away from the tree, feeling dread pool in my stomach. I know what will happen, but even so I move over to her, taking her hands in mine. “Mel, it'll be okay. We'll find an answer. We can work on your dreams together.” She's been like a sister to me for three years, and it breaks my heart to see her suffer. For some mages, like me, coming into their magic is an easy process. For others it's torturous. And for all Dalish, there is the terrible reality that a clan can only tolerate so many of them.

 

She shakes her head and pulls her hands away from mine. “No... no! You ruined _everything_. I wish you'd never come here! I wish you'd died!”

 

Her venom pierces my heart, and I look down in shame. We both turn, however, to the sound of hoof beats rumbling through the woods. A score of riders race through the trees, their horses snorting, pushed hard. I back away, but Mel, too upset, doesn't flee in time. Their large, gloved hands take her, pulling her up into the saddle. She screams and struggles, but it's no use. The riders, humans, chuckle, as if her fear is quaint, and something is tossed to my feet before they ride away.

 

It's a bag of gold. The amount for her purchase by one of the local lords.

 

I remember now. The gold had come to us like a boon, and I hadn't realized back then that the connection had been so direct. Blood money. They'd _bought_ her. Had our Keeper, her mother, set up the exchange, hiding it as an abduction? Or had the lord offered her the money afterwards to prevent bloodshed? Or had it merely been some human slap in the face, like we're nothing but chattel to them?

 

I can only stand there, looking into the woods the way the riding party had gone. A tear slides down my cheek, and I look down at the gold. The bag must have enough in it to keep us provisioned for months, and with winter coming, it'll be more than enough to keep us comfortable even if times are difficult. In a fit of rage I grab the bag and hurl it into the woods. Time seems to slow, and all falls to silence as the heavy leather purse tumbles through the air towards an elm tree. The moment the purse hits the trunk, there's a huge explosion that throws me back and off of my feet. Debris, smoke, and ash cloud my vision, and when I land, I'm skidding on dusty stone within a ruined keep.

 

The vista of mountains surrounds me, and all is charred and steaming. Bodies lay twisted and cooked all around me as I struggle to breathe. My throat hurts and every breath is a wheeze, and I feel hands grip at my clothing, the material different than it was a moment ago. Traveling clothes. Scout armor, of a sort. My vision reels, and familiar hands tend to me, taking the pain away. A lilting, gentle voice, and then the roar of fire. A rotting dragon. Snow and gravel.

 

Clawlike, cold, stony hands grip my by my hurting throat and lift me from my feet. A face, its skin stretched over cancerous growths of red lyrium, snarls at me. I'm cast down, my body hurting. I'll die here, but I persist, wasting time, engaging this impossible monster as well as I can. A light above the jagged peaks flares, and then the snows roar down the mountainsides, covering everything, swirling around me in a tempest of light. The monster's face is broken, and the orb shatters as I send him in pieces to the Fade.

 

All around me is death and suffering, and I crawl, bleeding and hurting, to sit in my throne as the maelstrom roars and spins just below the dais. Countless faces burn away, rot away, scream in agony, until, at last a single figure marches through it all, up the stairs, to stand before me. The elven woman, fair-skinned and white-haired, without a Vallaslin and with garnet eyes, ages quickly, her years torn from her one by one by the whipping winds. Her skin wrinkles, and her frame wastes away. I watch, horrified as her garnet eyes glaze over with cataracts, and her teeth fall out as she snarls at me.

 

“You will abandon him. You will die.” Her voice screams above the shriek of the storm, and I cross my arms over my face in terror. A pair of dry hands grip my wrists and pull them away, and suddenly a skeletal face pushes close in to mine, its breath a cloud of dust. “YOU HAVE DISHONORED A GOD! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

I bolt up in bed, covered in sweat, shaking. Dorian's guestroom is dark, though the quiet song of morning birds filters in through the window. My heart is pounding so hard that I feel dizzy, and my vision swims for a while before I begin to get a hold of myself. I thank the fates that I'd vomited before I'd fallen asleep, or else I'd be doing it right now, all over these lovely sheets. That I'm not emptying my stomach lets me shakily pull the covers back, and I move my legs, my right and what remains of my left, to drape over the edge of the bed.

 

A wash basin rests on the dresser top nearby, so I carefully stand, balancing on my right foot. I brace on the wall, then the dresser as I hop over to it, and then I lean my hip against it as I splash water into my face. My reflection greets me when the water settles enough, and I look tired. I'm not fifteen anymore. My life is more than half done now – the majority of my life is over.

 

What kind of narcissistic presumption let me accept Solas' feelings? What can I give him? Another twenty years? Thirty? What is that to him? It's nothing. How will he handle it when I die? He will be young, eternally, and he will watch me decay, forced to care for some decrepit creature. Will my mind go? Will I soil myself, and cry like an infant? Will I forget who he is? The thought of turning into that makes me brace my elbows on the dresser top, and my hands hide my face as I fight off hysterics. Why hadn't Solas allowed me to fall? I can't bear the thought of becoming a burden on anyone. Especially him.

 

The hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end, and immediately afterward I hear the door to the bedroom open quietly, then shut again. I breathe out slowly, then cup another handful of water and wash my face again, rubbing it into my expression to try and ease the despair out of it. There's a towel nearby, and I enjoy how soft it is on my hot, tingling skin. “How long was I asleep?” I finally ask, remaining by the dresser as I slowly breathe in and out.

 

Solas' voice comes from the window, maybe ten feet away from me. Always ten feet away. “Three days. Just like the last time.” I hear the slight creak of the shutter hinges, and then the bird song is a little louder. A pleasant breeze trickles in, smelling of flowers.

 

A long, slow breath is pulled in through my nose, and I finally stand up straight, turning to look at him. He looks tired, but when my eyes meet his, he smiles gently. The sight of him, unchanged, forever unchanged, makes me feel that pang of guilt all over again, and I flush, looking down, my lips a tight line. I turn away from the dresser, and to my relief he doesn't move over to help. He watches, of course, but he lets me do this on my own as I move back to the bed to sit and pull off my bed clothes. When had I put those on? I don't think I did.

 

The white nightgown is pulled off over my head, sticky with sweat and smelling sour. It's comforting to let my bare skin dry off in the breeze from the window, and for a few minutes I just sit there, calming down. Solas remains silent, looking outside as he lingers by the sill.

 

At long last I say “I'm dishonoring you. I'll die and leave you alone.”

 

Solas tilts his head a little, and I turn to look at him from the corners of my eyes. “That is why your dreams ended like that,” he says softly. I suppose I shouldn't be shocked that he saw it all – his explorations in dreams are something he's been quite up front with, right from the start.

 

I nod, nibbling on the inside of my cheek lightly. “It's not right. I'm... I'm not fit for you.”

 

His footsteps, soft on his typically bare feet, approach the bed, and he takes a seat next to me, a hand sliding gently over my back. “Who would be right for me, Ellena?” My head lifts a little and I look at him directly, sighing through my nose. I don't have an answer, so he provides one. “Think of who I am, _ma vhenan_. Do you think I deserve anyone?”

 

“You're a god, Solas.” It feels bizarre to remind him of that.

 

He chuckles. “It's not that simple. It never is.”

 

Again I look at my hands, the fingers laced in my lap.

 

His caress continues along my back slowly, and he muses “you will recall our discussions, back in Haven. I told you how the Dalish used to be, in Arlathan. How magic extended lives indefinitely, how there were spells that took years to recite. That magic isn't gone – it's only forgotten. Immortality... it was managed, not inborn, Ellena. We nine saw the world and felt a love for it. The elves were first, created, as we were created, and we decided to watch over them. We taught them the magic of long life. That was one of our many gifts.” He begins to look guilty, sadness weighing his words down. A moment passes by, and he takes in a slow breath, lifting himself from his melancholy as well as he can. “Although those gifts were lost to time, I have not forgotten them. It is your right to have them again.”

 

My eyes widen, and I sit up a little straighter, not sure what I'm hearing. “Solas... I... if you share this secret with me... what of the other elves? What of everyone else in Thedas?”

 

He looks down, closing his eyes. “ _Ma vhenan_ , there is a reason it was decided to let the Dalish forget.” A deep breath, and he continues. “What if no one died? Ever? Could a world support that many people? These skills, the knowledge necessary, would soon be jealously guarded by the elite. Commoners would again be allowed to perish, mortal again, while the aristocracy lived forever. A deep, unforgivable schism, far worse than what it's like here in Tevinter, would arise. All of those in service to the immortals would do anything for the promise of a longer life. Anything.” He looks at me, pained, and whispers “anything at all, no matter how despicable.”

 

My eyes close, and I swallow. “Is... is that why you locked them away?”

 

Solas sighs. “I... Ellena... our beautiful Elvhenan... we had made them into monsters. Do you understand the horror in that? Their beautiful accomplishments – the lore, the architecture, the songs – paled in comparison to the utter cruelty that blighted them. Life meant nothing, not with regards to the underclass. The ever-living would impart the Vallaslin upon their slaves for the glory of their patron gods. I forbade all Vallaslins in my honor. It was disgusting, but the other eight... they... they _basked_ in that wretchedness. The marking of slaves. Blood sport. Sacrifices. Utter depravity and cruelty for a moment's amusement? That is what the eight had come to expect. To demand.”

 

Now I realize why he had wanted to remove my Vallaslin, why it had been so terribly important to him.

 

He swallows, and admits “the blackness of their magic leaked into the earth, seeping into the living stones. It created monsters of the dead and the living. I... I couldn't let such a thing reach the surface, so I locked it away, convincing those blighted things to remain in a place of shadows in the only way I could think of. And I convinced the other eight that the dark creatures they'd spawned with their own arrogance were going to make war with them. It worked, and they fled far away to prepare. It was...” he sighs, sliding his hand over his bald head anxiously, “....it was so easy to lock them in.”

 

My heart sinks. I'd grown up to worship the pantheon, to believe in their goodness and benevolence. But from what Solas says, they weren't good at all. Nor evil. They were just... living things, and vulnerable to arrogance and conceit just like anyone else. “That must have been the hardest decision you've ever made.”

 

Solas nods slowly, breathing out. “I knew that locking them away was a death sentence for the Elvhen. Even when the other eight had been present, the ever-living had taken to the sport of war, waging it on each other like a game. But without their deities present to beg for intervention, war became war in truth. They destroyed all that they had built, and the only survivors were their slaves, mortal long since because they had never been taught the spells of long life. In their ignorance, the elves' immortality was lost, but the culture of servitude, the only one they had ever known, persisted.” At last he turns to me, and places a hand on my shoulder. I lift my eyes to meet his, and he impresses upon me “Ellena, if I give you this gift, you can never share it. Not with anyone.”

 

The silence between us is as tense as a bow string, and I nod. He's right. If such knowledge were to get out, people like Leliana, Vivienne, and the Empress would keep it jealously to themselves. Only the worthy would persist in eternal youth, and they would hold every ounce of power. The rest would stoop to any crime, any evil, any sin, to get a scrap of that immortality.

 

Solas sighs, relieved, and takes in a breath to say something else when there's a sudden sharp knock upon the door. We both startle and flinch, then glare at the door, behind which comes Dorian's voice “are you decent? I need to discuss something with you.”

 

I look at Solas, then sigh and nod, gesturing to the door. He frowns, then lifts a brow, until I realize that I'm completely naked. “Oh, right.” Towards the door, I call out “Dorian – one moment.”

 

Being delayed doesn't seem to irritate him, because I can hear the delight in his voice. “Ellena! You're awake! I was beginning to grow concerned.” Solas helps me to dress in my traveling clothes, though we don't bother with the heavy jerkin, only the white linen tunic. I climb out of bed and somehow make my way on one foot over to a comfortable padded chair near the window as Solas goes to open the door. “Ah, hello, old man,” Dorian chirps, and then he walks over to me. “I was half convinced you would sleep forever. I was considering making a paid attraction out of you. Sleeping Beauty, or some such.”

 

I just give Dorian a look, then glance over his shoulder as Callum waits by the door. There's a cart on wheels behind him, stacked with linens. Given that I've been asleep and sweating for three days, I can't blame him for being desperate to clean the room. “I'm sorry to deprive you of your side show attraction, Dorian. Is there anything to eat?”

 

The mage chuckles and offers me a hand, and this time I take it. I'm not about to hop all on my own down a hallway and a flight of stairs. Solas walks behind us, keeping an eye on me in case I stumble and slip from Dorian's grasp. A glance over my shoulder tries to reassure him, but he only gives me a slightly displeased, attentive look. I don't think he really likes seeing me on my feet – foot – so soon, but I'm not about to linger in bed while awake. At least, not because I'm an invalid.

 

We make our way to the dining room, and another servant is summoned and told to fetch a small meal. My stomach rumbles at the thought of it, and I feel light headed even from that small amount of exercise. Solas takes a seat next to me, his hand slowly caressing along my wrist. A little tingle of magic helps to wake me up and dull the aching cramps in my empty stomach.

 

Dorian watches us from the other side of the table, chuckling. “So, the two of you. Together. You're a traditional woman, taking a Dalish man.”

 

I smirk. If only he knew. I glance at Solas, but he remains prim and politely silent. He only turns his head to watch the servant return with a cart on wheels, much like the kind Callum had, though this one is laden with a bowl of fruit, fresh bread, cheese, cold meats, and pitchers of juice and water. Dorian is still looking at me, so I clear my throat. “It's shocking how things turned out. I hadn't quite planned on it.” I glance at Solas, who's quite happily adorning a plate with little morsels of everything. “But I'm glad it happened.”

 

Dorian smiles, waiting patiently as the cart makes its way around the table. I take my turn next, trying not to overload my plate, but also keeping in mind that this might be the only pass the cart will be making. Given how we're not asked about such details as why Solas left in the first place, what happened to my Vallaslin, and those sorts of things, I can only imagine Solas submitted himself for a grilling in Dorian's dreams. That must not have been a comfortable discussion – Dorian was quite angry on my behalf, at the time.

 

With a full plate before me, I have to abandon proper etiquette for a little while. I'm famished, and though I don't shovel in the delicious fare, I have quite summarily dropped the conversation. That we're all awake and eating is an improvement over the last few days, and it seems the other two are content to have their breakfast in companionable silence.

 

It's around the time the tea service comes around (and Solas gives me a disgusted look for enjoying a cup of it) that Callum enters the room. The usually surly elf looks quite pleased, his smile dashingly handsome. Dorian takes a sip of his tea, then leans back in his chair. “Oh go ahead, Callum. I know who's at the door.” The elven servant smiles and inclines his head before exiting the room, and Dorian turns to Solas and myself. “I would advise, for the time being, to retire to your quarters. Unless, of course, you would like to explain everything to Iron Bull and his Chargers.” He smirks, and adds quietly “Callum is quiet taken with them all; he finds them positively dashing.”

 

I smile, but Dorian does have a point. Reunions are one thing, but in my current state, I'm not sure I could keep up with the qunari's enthusiasm. “It might be a good time to make an exit.” I manage to push back my chair and get to standing on my right leg, and Solas gently wraps an arm around my waist to help me hop back to our room.

 

And not a moment too soon.

 

Just as we softly close the door, I can hear Iron Bull's booming voice rumbling through the lovely interior of Dorian's house, and the human mage's delighted voice rising to match it. Solas guides me to the bed so I can sit, and we listen as Iron Bull's entire crew file into another part of the house. I liked the Chargers, especially when they invited me now and again to get utterly stumbling drunk. It comforted them to know that I never saw them as tools, but people. Despite the ramifications, I chose to save them rather than earn the allegiance of Seheron and Par Vollen. That decision caused quite a long and heated argument in the war room, but I still stand buy it. After reading the history of the Qunari occupation in Kirkwall, I didn't quite trust their large military force to actually help.

 

“Shall I take a look?” Solas interrupts quietly, and I only just realize that he's referring to my leg.

 

I nod, and lean back on my hands as he kneels over my extended right leg, straddling it, as he carefully unwraps the dressings over the stump on the left. “It doesn't hurt,” I offer. Honestly, since the leg had come off, the pain associated with it had completely disappeared. That sounds ludicrous, but there had been pains beyond the roughness and swelling in the ankle – a constant malaise, an ache in the muscles along my back, the typical signs of exhaustion from a long-standing injury.

 

My curiosity gets the best of me, and I lean forward when the last of the bandaging is taken away. He and Dorian must have worked on me while I was sleeping – that sheer cut right across has been rounded, and skin covers everything. I'd imagine some sort of flesh craft has helped to seal up the loose ends, but even so, as I slide my fingers over the smooth, round surface, I'm amazed at how quickly it had improved.

 

Solas seems to approve. “It's healing very quickly.”

 

I nod, lifting my left leg and gently flexing the knee joint, making those last few inches move up and down. It feels strange and looks even stranger, but it's not swollen. “I was just thinking that. Whatever you to decided to do, you did it well.”

 

He smiles, caressing his fingertips up along the underside of my left thigh, teasingly. “I told you I was full of tricks.” I blush a little as he caresses what's left of my leg and kisses my left knee, as if to show that the change doesn't bother him. It's a relief, truly – I hadn't really believed that Solas would abandon me all over again, but I had been just a little worried that he'd be disgusted or, worse, pitying. Neither is the case, given how he shifts forward, letting my left leg drape over his hip as the top of his right thigh nudges in firmly and slowly against my cloth-covered crotch.

 

I blush, bracing back on my hands with a sly smile. “You also tend to bend the truth into coils, when you aren't breaking it entirely.”

 

Solas has the decency to look hurt, pouting just a touch even as he nudges his thigh in between my own insistently. “You wound me,” he purrs, dipping his head to kiss along the base of my throat.

 

With a deep, lazy sigh, I grin and tilt my head back, my fingers curling into the sheets. “Shall you ever get over it?”

 

His hand slips in beneath the bottom hem of my white tunic, the warm caress of his fingers sneaking upwards towards my right breast. Into my ear, he breathes “perhaps one day, I'll...” but he doesn't get a chance to finish.

 

The door to our chambers suddenly opens, and Iron Bull starts walking inside, laughing over his shoulder at a jest from someone else further down the hall. When he turns and finally sees us, he freezes dead in his tracks. Solas and I just look at him in shock, and all three of us are stuck still for a few seconds until Dorian jogs towards our room, cautioning “Bull, that's not your... oh, well _damn_.” His angry form sneaks in around Iron bull, and he presses his hands against the large qunari's chest, trying to push him back out the door.

 

Iron Bull, of course, just stays where he is, blinking with his remaining eye, until he starts laughing uncontrollably. There's the sound of other feet in the hall, but I frown and flick my hand, slamming the door. Another twitch of my fingers lock it, and I glare at Solas for not having done so earlier. He wilts a little, and disentangles himself. Out of necessity, he takes a seat in such a way that my body is between him and the other men, and I only just realize why as he grabs a pillow and covers the tent in his leggings.

 

“Right, so... hello, Bull. Nice to see you again,” I grumble, breathing out the tension from having been caught red-handed, as it were.

 

The qunari is still giggling, beside himself, and he marches over to the bed and pulls me up into a tremendous hug. Dorian, by now, has given up on trying to make him leave, so he simply remains with his back against the wall, arms crossed. The annoyed look he's trying to maintain is cracking a little – Iron Bull's enthusiasm is quite infectious.

 

“Leave something behind in Skyhold as a souvenir?” Bull asks, taking a look at my left leg and its missing parts.

 

I smile a little. “Unfortunate medical emergency. It's why we came here.”

 

Bull takes a moment to fathom the word _we_ , and then he glances at Solas. There's more than a little tension in the air. Unlike Dorian, Iron Bull's had no news to help blunt his anger over Solas having abruptly left, after abruptly ending the relationship. Back in the day, I spent quite a few drunken evenings with him in the tavern bar, working out my feelings over several shamefully emptied tankards of ale. The qunari starts to scowl, up until I clear my throat and scowl right back at him. “That's ancient history, Bull. As you can see, the situation's changed.”

 

I breathe an inner sigh of relief when he relaxes, chuckling. “Yeah, I noticed. How's it going, Solas?”

 

The elf inclines his head. “I've been in more awkward situations... but not many.”

 

Bull and Dorian snicker together, and the qunari takes in a deep breath. “So, let me guess. You're entirely done with the Inquisition to the point of being in hiding. Solas is helping you, help that was desperately needed if you had to get your leg so recently amputated. And now that you're on the mend, you don't want anyone to know where you've gone so you can live the rest of you life in peace.”

 

I just stare at him, then swallow. It's hard to remember that he came to the Inquisition as a Ben-Hasserath, a spy, and despite having let the Qun, he still has observational skills that I can't possibly fathom. “That's about the long and short of it,” I mutter at last.

 

He simply nods. “Alright. You want me to say you've died, or just forget this ever happened?”

 

Dorian just looks at him with confusion, but when I glance at Solas, the elf is smiling a little with respect. I consider my options for a minute, then shake my head. “Just forget. Don't open up a lie that might encourage someone to look for my remains.”

 

Bull smirks, rubbing his chin. “Oh I don't know. I could arrange for a body like yours to wash up on the shores of Redcliffe.”

 

“Bull!” Dorian chides, walking over and slapping the qunari in the arm. To my surprise, Iron Bull looks startled and thoroughly chastised. Solas and I watch in confusion as Dorian and Bull have a quiet, intense conversation, the briefest of one-sided spats as Dorian gives him what for and Iron Bull accepts it.

 

Eventually, Iron Bull clears his throat. “Right, so, nix that idea. I should get back to the boys, but... it's been good to see you, Boss. Been thinkin' about you. Horns up,” he says by way of parting.

 

“Horns up, Bull,” I say back with a smile, watching as the huge man unlocks the door and slips out of it.

 

Dorian just watches him leave with a sigh, then mutters “why I date him is entirely beyond me.”

 

Solas smiles, resting his cheek on his hand, and I smirk. “I can think of about eight reasons you put up with him.”

 

The human just looks at me with a haughty expression, and flicks an eyebrow. “Dorian Pavus doesn't get out of bed for less than nine reasons, I'll have you know.” He smiles, and conspires “Lucky for Bull, he's got reasons to spare. Now, if the big lummox hasn't alerted all of Minrathous that you're here, I'm going to go and make sure he never does. If you'll excuse me.”

 

When the door shuts behind him, I gesture with my hand again to lock it. I've been living on my own for so long that I, too, had forgotten all about the utter necessity of locks in populated places. Solas remains seated with his back to the headboard, and I shift, moving onto all fours. It's a touch awkward but far easier than I thought it'd be, and I crawl over to straddle his lap, smiling as I brace my hands on his shoulders. His own smile is indulgent, and his hands begin to slide up from my thighs to my hips as I purr “now then... where were we?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

All in all we stay with Dorian for an entire week. While I had spent half of it unconscious and dreaming, the elven and human mage had been quite busy indeed. Besides the additional surgery to neatly close the wound, they had worked together to design a new limb to replace the old one. A padded, shaped cup at the top is where I slip in the remainder of my leg below my left knee, and leather straps help keep it fastened to the thigh above. Clever hinges attach the cup to the rest of the prosthesis, and there's a hinged ankle and jointed foot. The metal itself is an enchanted silver and steel lattice, beautifully crafted, lightweight, and strong. The metal lines cover a central compartment, which I can access on the inner side of my calf. Handy, especially if I need to smuggle something during my travels. My fingers trace over the abstract design, and I notice that, though stylized, it's clearly the same image as I saw in the depths of the temple of Mythal – the icon of Fen'Harel.

 

That makes me smile. It's not a Vallaslin, of course, but it's something. And no elf bears the mark of Fen'Harel, save for me.

 

Yet all of those features pale in comparison to what happens after Dorian casts one last spell on the prosthesis. I'm sitting in the arm chair in the guest quarters, and I watch as the purple coloration of the magic soaks into the metal, enchanting it further. My left leg feels strange, tingling from the hip down.

 

Dorian nods to Solas, who then stands in front of me and takes up my hands in his. “On your feet, _ma vhenan_. Just look at me.”

 

I frown, scooting to the edge of the seat. “The last time you told me to do that, it was unpleasant.” Still, I take a deep breath, and firm my grip on his hands. I put all my weight on my right foot as a matter of course, and stand upright. My left leg still feels strange, and I'm just about to look down when I'm suddenly yanked forward. With great confusion, I look at Solas' happy face as he walks backwards quickly, and I only just notice that I'm... walking along with him.

 

When I glance down, I see that my weight is evenly distributed between both feet, false and real, and very slowly I let go of his hands. The prosthesis moves when I think about it, just as any limb would, and I begin to pace around the room, marveling at how easy it is. It makes no noise, in truth, the joints so well made that only movement of the sole pressing to the floor makes any sound. My cheeks are flushed with delight, and I look at Dorian and Solas both with a large smile, who themselves are grinning.

 

“What... how much can I do with it?” I ask, cautiously.

 

Dorian glances at Solas, then back at me. “I'm not sure, my dear. I've never made one of these before.”

 

“Go and try it. If it breaks, we will fix it” Solas encourages softly.

 

It's nighttime now, so it's easy to slip out of the house unseen. The leg feels very secure even as I descend stairs, then walk up a small winding path towards the foothills looming over Minrathous. The moon is hidden by silken clouds, and the gentle sea breeze is so refreshing as I walk. There's no pain. No more pain. I'm smiling and I can't help it – it's like I'm young again. I haven't felt this way in such a long time.

 

The lights down in the bay twinkle just like the lights on the sea, and the clouds move quickly beneath the moon to cast beams of silver light over it all. It's heavenly, and only now do I realize how little I could really see of the world's beauty after the cataclysm. I had been so singularly absorbed with defeating evil that I hadn't made any plans for surviving it. And after? I had persisted, feeling angry and abandoned, still without any real plans. The world had gone gray without me realizing it, my senses dulled with, I can admit it now – despair.

 

To be free of that now, it's an almost painful feeling. It's so intense. There's so much of it. My heart pounds with the desire to live and experience the good things in life, to fully indulge rather than just steal a miserly sliver every now and then, but I don't know where to start. Here, standing on the high hills overlooking the gem of Tevinter, I don't know how best to celebrate.

 

And yet... I do.

 

Without warning I set off into a sprint. The leg, somehow, has the same kinds of sensations that my left leg used to have. It can sense what the ground is like, just like the sole of my right foot through my boot. My speed picks up, and just as the clouds pass from the moon entirely to let its silver light shine down, my white hair comes loose from its braid and streams behind me as I race along the winding ridge.

 

My people were the first, beloved and cherished, even if those who loved and cherished us were flawed. We knew the world before anyone else. We gazed upon the stars, sailed the oceans, and ran over the earth in bodies meant just for this, to exult and dance and run in celebration that this was for us. And it still is – we share it now, but it's not all gone. The skies are still there, as are the seas, and the earth. Everything changes. To improve, things cannot remain the same. The Dalish don't yet understand that, but they will. Some day.

 

As I run, I turn my head to see the dark shape of a wolf running along the bottom of the hill, keeping pace with me, watching out for me in case I fall. I won't fall – not this time.

 

I laugh with delight and keep running, and the wolf takes it as the invitation it was meant to be. Soon enough he's sprinting along side me, the telltale look of a delighted canine set into his dark, sleek face. When at last I need to slow down and breathe, hands on knees, the large wolf rubs against me like a cat, wagging his tail and growling happily as I laugh, beside myself. His huge head nuzzles gently against mine, and I grin happily, closing my eyes, my loose white hair mixing with his thick, dark brown pelt.

 

“Thank you,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around his neck and burying my face into his shaggy ruff. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

 

I sink to my knees, and he sits on his haunches gently, a solid pillar that I cling to and lean against. His large head drapes over my shoulder, his chin pressing to my back. “You are now well and whole – you can walk and run, laugh and smile and love with all your heart.” When he pulls his head back, his tongue slides out to caress along my cheek, and I chuckle, leaning back to rest on my heels, regarding him. The wolf looks at me seriously, his eyes glowing a luminous icy blue. “It is time to bring balance. It's time for you to take your place.”

 

Now I'm confused, and I blink, feeling a slight chill run down my spine. “Solas?” But I'm not talking to Solas, not anymore. I'm talking to a god.

 

He lowers his head and closes his eyes. Immediately I feel an energy well up in the air around us. The mark on my left hand scintillates beneath my skin before the small lines open up, emitting a bright green light. I shift back a touch, holding my hand up between us, unsure of what's happening. The energy that has been lifting around us like the heavy air of a storm begins to crackle, blue flashes streaking around us, faster and faster. Time feels sluggish, like everything is underwater, like the air is thick.

 

All this time, the wolf has been speaking an incantation, his muzzle moving just enough to enunciate the words in the language of the people. The blue lights begin to peel away from their circuit around us to glance by me. Some caress my cheek, others my back, and still others my outstretched arm and hand. The ones that touch the mark linger, then sink into the glowing slits, each one still glowing blue as it flows in beneath my skin towards my chest. More and more find my hand, my arm trembling.

 

I have to press my right hand to the ground to brace myself. The sensation is strange, but not bad. It's not pain or pleasure, but power. My heart pounds and my head dips, the tips of my hair just caressing the earth. And then those last few inches are closed, and the wolf's muzzle presses against the anchor. I cry out and tense, an electric lash keeping me rigid. My fingers grip at the top of his muzzle and I pant, looking up into his eyes. And what I see takes my breath away.

 

The veil is lifted, in this small area between us, and I can see... him. I can see what he truly looks like. To call him a man would be inaccurate, but to call him a wolf wouldn't be right. He's both at once, his image the one juxtaposed on the other. He's huge and black like a shadow with many eyes. He's a slender elven man. The Fade breathes into him and out of him, making him, speaking to him, singing to him all the time. When at last his eyes open, on both figures, they blaze with the same green light as my hand. They are his connection to the Fade itself. Another anchor.

 

“Breathe” both figures intone slowly, their voice a deep rumbling through the screaming maelstrom.

 

I feel like I'm drowning. My mouth doesn't want to open, but my lungs are burning. The caress of the thick magic washes over my face like water, and only after a hard fight with my instincts, I open my mouth and breathe in. For just a moment I quake and jerk, and then I feel so different. Why was I afraid of this? The air, just a breath of air, is what has let all the magic that's already crept in through my anchor do what it needs to do. Blue light warms me all over, flowing through every cell and thought and dream. I don't know if I'm kneeling or standing or floating, but all the same the blue light explodes out from me, like a miniature version of the cataclysm at Haven, and the years gathered since then are torn away.

 

* * *

 

 

When I open my eyes again, I see the stars and moon above me in the night sky. Blades of grass wave gently on the breeze around me, and I know I'm lying on my back. A tightness grows in my chest, and the sight of the stars grows hazy with every passing moment.

 

“Breathe, _ma vhenan_ ,” comes a soothing voice, just out of sight.

 

It takes a conscious effort to open my mouth and throat, and to will my chest to open up. It's as if I can't remember the right sequence until, by chance, I stumble upon it. Air shrieks into my lungs and I arch my back, my body moving and contorting just a little as the last remnants of power ease their way out, and a pair of warm, elegant hands press to my shoulders to help me settle back down.

 

Solas' silhouette is like a shadow against the blackness of the sky, now that the clouds are drifting in once more to cover the moon and stars. All I can do is lie there and learn to breathe all over again as I look at him. His expression is one of pleasure and pride, and his hand moves to cup my cheek, his fingertips caressing over my cheekbones and the top edge of my ear. “Andruil had her beloved Ghilan'nain. And now I have you. You, who brought change to the world. You, who rebelled against the Chantry to do what was right. You, who chance selected and the Fade embraced. Now I have you, and name you Ellena, the Herald of the Fade.”

 

I look at him in silence, swallowing. My left hand lifts, and I caress his cheek just as he caresses mine. And while doing so, I will my mark to come alive. He only smiles, and I can see the mixed creature revealed within the radius of the green light, as if all of this life, Thedas, everything on this side of the Fade is an illusion to be cleared away. His head moves just a little, pressing against my touch affectionately, and in the glowing I can see how half of his face looks like the wolf, as if that's what he always is, glamoured or not. I will the slits in my skin to close, and the green light dies away to nothing, leaving Solas' elegant, handsome features as they were before.

 

Everything feels new. When I push myself up, bracing on my right hand, the earth feels cool and alive beneath my fingers. When I press my lips to his, I can feel the heat of his life and his need, and I can taste his desire and love. We are lost, both of us, to sensation, as he lets himself feels these things too, giving in to the true extent his nature allows. There is no one to see our union there in the grass; it's a thing that, despite its terrific impression on my mind as a turning point in my life, will go unwitnessed by anyone, save him. Perhaps it's a good thing, in the end. I can hardly describe how I feel, but I can only imagine the visual wouldn't do it justice.

 

My senses only begin to return to normal afterwards, when we lie in the grass together, undressed. The sight of my left leg, made of beautiful silver and steel and black leather strips crisscrossing up to my thigh, is beautiful in a strange way. I had thought it would look garish, but in truth it looks like some beautiful silver lace stocking over a real leg. One I will always wear, now.

 

“I don't want to get up,” I say softly, gazing up at the stars.

 

Beside me, Solas turns his head, his eyes long since having doused their glowing. He smiles knowingly, caressing the backs of his curled fingers against my cheek. “I know. But we cannot stay.”

 

His touch makes my eyes close happily, and I turn my head just enough to kiss at the back of his hand before he pulls it away. “I feel, lying here on this hilltop and seeing nothing but green grass and stars, that the world is new. That all the evils in it, all the mistakes and all the suffering, are gone. I don't want that to end.”

 

Solas watches me carefully as I sit up, and I take a moment to look down at the thickly-settled port. My head tilts, and I sigh, knowing that a world begun all over again wouldn't be as good. I wouldn't care so deeply about it as I do this one. The elf beside me sits up too, looking at the houses and the lights, and listening to the songs and music wafting up on the breeze. “You understand a little better now, I think,” he murmurs, his fingers lacing with mine.

 

I chuckle, glancing at him. “Despite the horrors of this one, I still like it. I nearly killed myself to save it, after all. And I'll be here to watch over it, if the sky tears again.” For a moment I pause, and then smile. “This is going to be a long... _long_ watch. Perhaps I should get one of Varric's books to bide the time.”

 

And the Dread Wolf laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

 


End file.
